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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 







St. Martin’s Summer 


BY 

MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN 

Author of “ The Watsons of the Country^ “ The Wat- 
son Girls f ** Belinda f “ Belinda's Cousins f “ Jasper 
Thorn f “ Jack Chumleigh at Boarding School,' etc» 



PHILADELPHIA 
H. L. Kilner & Co. 
PUBLISHERS 


\ 



V 

5 


UBRARY of JONGScSS 
fwu Copies Retetveu 


JUL 28 1905 







Copyright, 1905, by 

Maurice Francis Egan 




To 

John and Hugh Carter , 
of Helena^ Montana 


V 



The author expresses his obligation to the Ave 
Maria and The Rosary for the courteous per- 
mission of their Editors, to use much of the 
matter in “ St. Martin’s Summer.” 





Contents 


I 

Thornydale 



9 

II 

The Blood of the Watsons 


i 6 

III 

The Telegram . 



22 

IV 

Alice and St. Elizabeth 



28 

V 

Alice’s Struggles 



33 

VI 

Mrs. Brogan 



39 

VII 

The Battle 



45 

VIII 

Aunt Susan’s Decision 



50 

IX 

They Are Off . 



56 

X 

New York at Last 



63 

XI 

Another Telegram . 



74 

XII 

Lost .... 



81 

XIII 

The Rising of the Moon 



87 

XIV 

The Setting of the Sun 



92 

XV 

Among the Breakers . 



98 

XVI 

The Group on the Beach 



104 

XVII 

“ Through the Long Night” 


III 

XVIII 

Richard and Richard 



129 

XIX 

Richard Continues His Story 


139 

XX 

A Story Ends 



H 7 

XXI 

A Lesson for Elise 



152 

XXII 

Arden’s Rosary . 



163 

XXIII 

A Bit of Glass . 



185 


7 




8 


CONTENTS 


XXTV 

A Portentous Hint 

. 195 

XXV 

The Gunpowder 

• 234 

XXVI 

The Tiger . 

• 243 

XXVII 

Danger Again 

. 281 

XXVIII 

All’s Well . 

. 295 


St. Martin’s Summer 


I 

THOENYDALE 

Quietness was all Mr. and Mrs. Watson 
asked in life. They disliked travel, though Dick 
and Bernard having tasted * the delights of 
change, had learned to love it. Alice Watson 
was back at Kosebrier again, and the family was 
united. Only Josie, whom they all loved, had 
gone back to the convent, to prepare for her 
graduation. Eosebrier had become so valuable 
and unpleasant for the reason that a great gas 
plant had been built near it, that Mr. Watson 
felt it his duty to sell the place. He bought an- 
other estate, — a house, grounds, and six farms, 
not far away. Thorny dale was not Kosebrier, 
but it soon became “ home.’’ 

Ferdinand Esmond had been sent to George- 
town by Uncle Will. And his mother had con- 
sented to remain at Thornydale while Mr. and 
9 


10 


ST. maktin’s summer 


Mrs. Watson went over to the baths at Carlsbad, 
to which Mr. Watson had been peremptorily or- 
dered by his doctor. Alice had improved very 
much, but her caprices, — indulged at Madame 
Kegence’s, — were always taking new forms. 
Just now she lived in a world of imagination, in 
which she was a princess. Mrs. Watson’s good 
sense would have probably brought her to earth, 
— but Mrs. Watson was away. 

Like a thunderclap came word from Uncle 
Will that he wanted them to spend “ St. Mar- 
tin’s Summer,” — as he called the autumn in 
Dublin, where he was hard at work on a knotty 
legal problem involving part of his fortune. The 
young people had many variations of feeling. 

Of course they were sad at the prospect of 
going away from Mrs. Esmond. And, then, 
they were about to leave their native land, too. 
Alice played the “ Star Spangled Banner ” and 
“ Hail, Columbia ! ” every day for a week after 
they received the Dublin letter ; and Dick won- 
dered half a dozen times whether they would 
ever celebrate a Fourth of July again. Bernard 
declared that he would always hoist the Ameri- 
can flag and shoot off fire-crackers, come what 


THOENYDALE 


11 


might. Rose was really the saddest of all, be- 
cause she loved Aunt Susan Esmond better than 
any of the others ; and, though she did not talk 
patriotism at all, she looked wistfully at the 
white houses and green fields around her, and 
thought to herself that Thornydale was the pret- 
tiest place in all the world. 

The young folk near Thornydale envied the 
young Watsons, but most of them said many 
kind things. Alice burst into tears — or, at least, 
she came into Aunt Susan’s sitting-room with 
tears in her eyes, — because Seth Langley had 
brought her his pet rabbit as a remembrance. 
And Alice had been very rude at times to Seth. 

Seth was an elderly man, half-witted, supported 
by kind people, and he liked to stop the children 
on their way from school and to tell them about 
his adventures in his youth at sea. Sometimes 
Alice had been impatient, and had cut Seth’s 
stories off short. And now that he had brought 
her his only treasure — the white rabbit, — she felt 
very sorry. 

“ And I thought he hated me,” she said ; “and 
I avoided him every time I passed. And, he 
didn’t remember it. He said I’d always been so 


12 


ST. martin’s summer 


kind to him that he could not let me go without 
showing it in some way.” 

‘‘ He is a good old man,” remarked Aunt Susan 
gently. People think more kindly of us than 
we imagine. I have always found it so.” 

“ And may I take the rabbit across the ocean, 
auntie ? ” 

Aunt Susan hesitated. 

“ I’ll take charge of it,” Dick said. 

Aunt Susan looked at him doubtfully. She 
knew, from observation, that Dick’s “ care ” 
would kill the rabbit in a short time. Dick’s 
care was the kind of care that might even kill 
the nine lives of a cat. Alice tried to “draw 
herself up haughtily.” Alice had read many 
novels since “ Eoline,” and she was always imi- 
tating her favorite heroines. She never cried: 
she always “ burst into tears ” ; she was never 
surprised : she was always “ profoundly agi- 
tated ” ; and Dick grinned frequently in imita- 
tion of her “slow, sweet smile.” 

Kose ran into the room, her curls flying be- 
hind her, with two large packages in her 
hands. 

“ It’s maple-sugar ! ” she announced. “ And 


THORNYDALE 


13 


Jim Brogan, the milk-boy, says we’re to take it, 
with his compliments.” 

The milk-boy indeed ! Alice “ drew herself up 
haughtily,” and said, in what she imagined to be 
a “ scornful tone ” : “I thought you had more 
pride. Rose, than to take anything from the milk- 
boy.” 

“ Why ? ” said Rose, — “ why ? His mother 
said he might give the maple-sugar to us. And 
he meant it kindly.” 

Aunt Susan was quiet; she often learned a 
great deal of her charges’ characters by letting 
them talk. 

“ I could never take a gift from such a low 
person,” said Alice, with her grandest air. “ I 
consider myself above such people. They are 
inferior.” She half laughed, as she said this. 

Rose turned her eyes towards Aunt Susan in 
astonishment. 

“Has Jim Brogan done anything wrong?” 
she asked. “He has always seemed so good 
and attentive. He is always so clean and neat 
when he serves mass. He must have a good 
mother.” 

Alice tried to “curl her lip.” Dick, coming 


14 ST. maetin’s summer 

into the room, caught her in the act. He 
laughed. 

“ What are you doing now, Alice ? ” he said. 
“ ‘ Drawing yourself up proudly ’ or ‘ letting your 
eyes flash in utter scorn ’? I know all the signs, 
but I can’t tell what you are doing now.” 

Alice always dropped what Dick called her 
‘‘ high tragedy airsj^’ when Dick was near. 

“She’s just saying that Jim Brogan, the milk- 
boy, is so inferior that we can’t take a piece of 
maple-sugar from him.” 

Dick’s eyes twinkled. “ Oh, Alice is preparing 
herself for Old-World ways ! In England, you 
know, the gentry don’t know tradespeople, and 
our own father is considered so inferior by some 
of them.” 

“I’m not thinking of England at all. I do 
think that it would be very undignified for us to 
take a gift from little Jimmy Brogan.” 

“ Jimmy doesn’t steal, does he ? ” 

“ The idea, Dick ! He’s a very good boy. I 
am not talking of anything but his social position.” 

Dick doubled himself up in a paroxysm of af- 
fected laughter. Mrs. Esmond smiled in spite of 
herself as she said, “ Don’t, Dick ! ” 


/ 


THOKNYDALE 


15 


Alice became red, and forgot to draw “ herself 
up proudly.” 

“ Oh, my I ” said Dick, “ how aristocratic ! 
Why, only two years ago you used to play 
marbles in the front yard with Jimmy and me ! 
He was good enough then.” 

“ I wasn’t here then ! ” said Alice, indignantly. 

“ And if she takes Seth’s rabbit, why shouldn’t 
I take Jimmy’s sugar ? ” 

“ O my dear Kose, she likes rabbits, but she 
doesn’t like maple-sugar ! That makes all the 
difference in the world.” 

Aunt Susan settled the dispute by deciding 
against the aristocrat of the family. 


16 


ST. martin’s summer 


II 

THE BLOOD OF THE WATSONS 

Bernard, who had just re-read ‘‘Tom Brown at 
Kugby,” was anxious to go to a boarding'school. 
But the girls feared a boarding-school with all 
their hearts. They had learned to love Thorny- 
dale too much. 

The days at Thorny dale passed pleasantly. 
They had their troubles, of course. Bernard, the 
youngest, was often “kept in” at school, and 
Dick sprained his arm trying to get the chest- 
nuts from the topmost boughs of the trees On 
the Kidge. Until Uncle Will’s letter came noth- 
ing really important happened. 

“ It will do them good,” he wrote, “ to have 
some experience. They will not read so much 
perhaps ; they will not learn so much out of 
books ; but they will be well taught, and make 
the acquaintances of their cousins here. I long 
so much to see them. As I cannot go to them, 
let them come to me. I shall be so glad to see 


THE BLOOD OF THE WATSONS 17 

them I ” To which a Dublin relative added, 
“ Dear little things ! ” 

“ She must think we are mere infants,” Dick 
said. “But she’ll soon know by our appetites 
that ^e are no such ‘ dear little things.’” 

“Don’t be vulgar, Dick,” Alice said. “As 
uncle says, we must go, — of course we must.” 

The day came at last when the Watsons were 
to say good-bye to Thornydale. The trunks were 
packed. All the good-byes had been said. Noth- 
ing remained between them and an ocean voy- 
age except two days in New York, during which 
they were to buy steamer-chairs and some other 
necessary articles recommended by their father, 
who had written to each a very careful letter of 
advice. 

There were no lessons to learn, of course, on 
the evening before their departure. Twilight 
was falling. The excitement which had hitherto 
kept them almost at fever heat had gone. An 
unusual quietness and sadness stole over them. 
The grate fire made the room cheerful. Rose 
lighted the alcohol lamp, and prepared to make 
her Aunt Susan’s cup of tea as usual. Her aunt 
sat near the window, with her face turned from 


18 


ST. martin’s summer 


the children. When she spoke it was in a cheer- 
ful voice, but they could guess from her every 
motion that she was very sorry to lose them. 
Alice was out, taking her music lesson. The rain 
had begun to come down heavily, and its patter- 
ing on the pane made a sort of bass to the treble 
and sharp crackling of the fire. 

“ No matter how hard it rains,” Dick said, 
with a little sigh, “ we’ll have to go to-morrow. 
Liverpool steamships wait for no man.” 

“ Ah, yes 1 ” said Aunt Susan — “ but,” she 
added, rousing herself to a more cheerful tone, 
“ how shall Alice get home ? It’s raining very 
hard. Dick, you had better go after her. You’ll 
find her waterproof in the hall closet.” 

Dick jumped up without a murmur — an un- 
usual thing for him, — and, having gallantly 
handed Aunt Susan her cup of tea, prepared to 
obey her. Suddenly Alice passed the window 
under a huge umbrella. 

“ What an umbrella ! ” cried Dick. “ It must 
have come out of the ark. Why, a dozen people 
could get under it. Who lent it to you ? ” 

Alice’s carefully done hair had lost its curl, and 
bright rain-drops shone on her cheeks. 


THE BLOOD OF THE WATSONS 19 

“ I should have been drenched — actually 
drenched — if it had not been for that umbrella ; 
for it did not begin to rain until I had got three 
or four blocks from Herr Brecken’s.” 

“And who was the good Samaritan who lent 
you his family tent ? ’’ demanded Dick, taking a 
thick slice of bread and butter. 

Alice reddened a little, and took off her hat, 
unrolled her music, but she did not answer Dick’s 
question. 

“ I don’t see how you expect to eat any din- 
ner,” interrupted Kose, “ if you eat so much now. 
And there’s going to be ice cream, too, in honor 
of our last dinner here.” 

“ Is there ? ” cried Dick. “ Oh, joy, oh, rapture 
unforeseen ! — But who lent you the family um- 
brella, Alice ? ” 

Alice reddened more than ever. 

“ Well, I couldn’t help taking it. I was pass- 
ing Mrs. Brogan’s house, and thinking that I 
should catch my death of cold, when Jimmy Bro- 
gan ran out ” 

“Oh, ho!” cried Dick. “And you said to 
him : ‘ Our social station precludes my accepting 
your ’ ” 


20 


ST. martin’s summer 


“Aunt Susan, won’t you make Dick stop? 
He treats me as if I was his sister ! ” 

“ precludes my accepting your family 

heirloom. And then you ‘drew yourself up 
haughtily.’ ” 

“ Aunt Susan ! I’m only his cousin ; he ought 
to be more polite ! ” 

“ Stop, Dick ! ” commanded Aunt Susan. “But 
Alice, do not talk such nonsense in the future. 
A gentlewoman should never talk of anybody’s 
being ‘her inferior.’ The Brogans are good, 
kind-hearted people. If you will let their quali- 
ties count for less than mere exterior things, you 
are not worthy to be your mother’s daughter, 
Alice. Poor Jimmy is doing his best to help his 
mother and to make a man of himself. I’m 
afraid you’ve been taking your ideas from the 
English novels you read, my dear. Some day 
you may meet in society a clever man whom you 
will feel honored to know. Perhaps it will be 
this same Jimmy Brogan who brings our milk 
every morning before we are up, that he may 
help his mother to pay her rent.” 

“I didn’t mean any harm, auntie,” said 
Alice, kneeling down by her aunt and taking 


THE BLOOD OF THE WATSOH8 21 

her hand. “But Jimmy wears such ragged 
clothes ! ” 

“ Can he help it ? ” cried Dick. “ It makes me 
mad to hear girls talk so ! Why, that boy is the 
best pitcher in Thornydale, and when we played 
the Star Baseball Club last spring he just made 
them all turn pale I And Father Eeardon gave 
him the medal for excellency, too. Alice, if you 
talk that way again I’ll disown you.” 

“You are always forgetting, Dick, that the 
blood of the Watsons flows in your veins,” re- 
torted Alice, with what she intended to be a 
“ haughty stare,” though the effect of it was en- 
tirely lost in the twilight. 

The others laughed sarcastically. 

“ Well, what if it does ? ” demanded Dick. 
“ Wasn’t papa a poor young man ? Hasn’t he 
told us about it often enough ? And didn’t he 
just work and work and work until he earned all 
he has ? If he hadn’t worked, I reckon I’d be 
wearing ragged clothes now, in spite of the blood 
of the Watsons ! ” 

The door-bell rang. It was a boy with a tele- 
gram. 


22 


ST. maetin’s summer 


III 

THE TELEGRAM 

A TELEGRAM was not usual in the Watson 
family. Aunt Susan clutched Dick’s arm. 

“ Oh, dear,” she said, “ I know something aw- 
ful has happened ! Ferdinand is in danger ! ” 

Alice tried to produce an attitude of suspense 
and fear. Kose, naturally sympathetic, began to 
imagine all kinds of horrors. Aunt Susan held 
the yellow envelope in one hand, while she plied 
the smelling-salts with the other. 

“ Just as you were about to leave with every- 
thing favorable ! ” she said. “ It is always thus, 
children ; you must never count on anything in 
this world.” 

“ Are we not going, after all ? ” asked Kose. 

“ Oh, dear aunt ! ” cried Alice, seizing her 
aunt’s hands, smelling-salts, telegram, and all, 
“be calm — be calm! You still have us all.” 
Alice spoiled the effect by giggling. 

“ I should think so,” said Dick j “ we’re all here ; 


THE TELEGEAM 


23 


SO is the telegram — unopened. Why don’t you 
open it, Aunt Sue ? ” 

“ You unfeeling boy ! ” said Alice. “ Have you 
no respect for your aunt’s trouble ? ” 

“ When I know what it is, perhaps I shall have. 
But I don’t see why the boy should be kept wait- 
ing all this time.” 

Aunt Susan thrust the telegram into Dick’s 
hand. Alice put her hand to her heart and 
turned up her eyes. Rose was all attention. 

Dick tore open the envelope. 

“Berths engaged. Will you take charge of 
young Brogan ? See Father Reardon. 

“ Duffy.” 

“ Is that really all f ” demanded Alice. 

“ That is really aZZ,” said Dick. 

“ What can it mean ? ” asked Aunt Susan, in 
astonishment. 

“ It means that papa’s friend, Mr. Duffy, has 
made every preparation for our voyage, and that 
he wants Aunt Susan to take charge of some- 
body going across.” 

“ Take charge of whom ? ” cried Aunt Susan, 
in alarm. 


24 


ST. maetin’s summer 


“ I don’t know,” said Dick. “ It says, ^ See 
Father Eeardon.’ ” 

“ Dear me I ” exclaimed Aunt Susan. “ But 
surely Mr. Duffy knows that I am not going 
across! You are all to be in charge of the 
purser.” 

“ Of course he knows it,” Dick said ; he could 
not make any mistake about that. I suppose he 
means that I shall take charge of this young per- 
son. He perhaps has heard of my noble charac- 
ter in Hew York. Talent always drifts to Hew 
York ” 

“ Stop your nonsense, Dick,” Aunt Susan said ; 
“ we must consider this seriously. Perhaps you 
had better take this telegram to Father Keardon 
at once.” 

‘‘ If we wait a while,” Dick said, looking at the 
streaming rain, ‘‘ he may drop in. He may have 
been up town to-day. It’s his day out — Monday, 
you know.” 

“ If he does we’ll make him stay to dinner, and 
talk it all over.” 

For the next five minutes the young people 
wondered what it could all mean. The dinner 
bell, tinkled. They filed into the dining-room, 


THE TELEGRAM 


25 


and Aunt Susan was about to say grace when the 
door-bell rang, and Father Keardon’s cheery 
voice was heard. 

“ It’s only my overcoat that’s wet,” he said, as 
Dick ran out to greet him. “ I ought not to have 
come into anybody’s house dripping in this way, 
but I’ve had a telegram.” 

“ So have we ! ” said Dick. 

Seated at the brightly lit dinner-table. Father 
Eeardon was seen to be a very tall man, with a 
ruddy skin and white hair. His keen blue eyes 
seemed to hold a perpetual smile, and he brought 
sunshine wherever he came. When he had oc- 
casion to rebuke any of his parishioners, it 
seemed as if the sunshine were veiled by a cloud. 

“ How pleasant it seems here after the darkness 
and the rain outside ! Ah, my dear children, 
how happy you are ! I hope you are grateful.” 

“ Indeed we are,” said Alice very seriously. 

“We are doubly grateful when we remember 
that we have the blood of the Watsons in our 
veins,” said Dick, with a sly glance at his cousin. 

Father Keardon did not understand this. He 
took it seriously. “ You ought to be thankful 
that you have a good father and mother, Richard, 


26 


ST. martin’s summer 


and a kind aunt, and everything around you that 
can help to make a good man of you. This even- 
ing I saw a great contrast to this.” And the 
good priest sighed. “ I had a telegram, as I 
said. ’Twas from Mr. Duffy, of New York. I 
went at once to the Brogans, and found out what 
it all meant.” 

“ What Brogans, father ? — the family on the 
hill ? ” asked Aunt Susan. 

“ Oh, no,” said Father Keardon ; “ they^vQ the 
rich Brogans. It’s the poor Brogans I’m speak- 
ing of — Mrs. Brogan and Jimmy.” 

It suddenly dawned on Aunt Susan’s mind 
that Brogan was the name mentioned in the tele- 
gram. 

“ Oh ! ” exclaimed Alice, “ surely we are not 
expected to take charge of Jimmy Brogan ” 

“ Why not ? ” asked the priest. “ It will be a 
kind act — that is, if any act that separates a boy 
from his mother can be called kind. But if 
you’ll take him it will relieve some of his mother’s 
heartbreak, I’m sure.” 

‘‘ I suppose he’ll go in the steerage,” said Alice, 
in a tone of great satisfaction, “ and we shall not 
have much to do with him.” 


THE TELEGRAM 


27 


Father Eeardon looked at Alice in surprise. 

“ FTo : I don’t think so ; his uncle wants him 
to travel in the most comfortable way — but I’ll 
tell you all about it.” 


28 


ST. martin’s summer 


IV 

ALICE AND ST. ELIZABETH 

Father Eeardon, having, according to his 
custom, refused the dessert — much to the amaze- 
ment of Rose, who could not understand how 
any human being could refuse ice cream, — began : 

“ Well, as I said, I had a telegram from Mr. 
Duffy, asking me to see the Brogans. I went 
over there, and found Mrs. Brogan and Jimmy 
in the greatest distress. ‘ O father,’ Mrs. Bro- 
gan said, with tears in her eyes, ‘ a piece of good 
fortune has struck us, and we’re the most miser- 
able people on the face of the earth ! ’ ‘ That 

happens very frequently, Mrs. Brogan,’ said I ; 
‘ when we have what we want, we often find 
that it brings more sorrow than joy with it.’ 
‘ True enough,’ Mrs. Brogan said. ‘ And,’ I re- 
marked — I hope you’ll mind it, too, children, — 
‘ what we pray for and what God does not grant 
is generally what we ought not to have.’ ” 

Rose blushed a little. She had been praying 


ALICE AND ST. ELIZABETH 


29 


very hard for a bicycle, although Aunt Susan 
had told her over and over again that she had 
better pray for spiritual graces. 

“ It seems that Mrs. Brogan has a letter from 
the old country, from Jimmy’s uncle, who is 
rich, asking for Jimmy. This uncle wants to 
educate him. He has put the funds for Jimmy’s 
passage in Mr. Duffy’s hands, and he wants him 
at once. And so Mr. Duffy — good Christian 
man that he is — thought that you might look 
after the boy.” 

“Why can’t his mother look after him?” 
asked Aunt Susan, rather nervously. “ Of 
course if I were going it would be different, 
but ” 

“ Oh, I know,” answered the priest ; “ but Alice 
is so wise and well-conducted, that Jimmy’s 
mother trusts her entirely ; so she has no objec- 
tion to confiding him to you.” 

“ Oh, dear ! ” Alice began ; “ but I have an 
objection ” 

Father Keardon did not hear her. He was too 
much interested in Jimmy. “ Poor Mrs. Brogan 
cannot go herself. It seems that her husband 
left some debts, and she is paying them off. 


30 


ST. martin’s summer 


Poor woman! She and Jimmy have not only 
had to earn their living, but to put aside every 
cent that was not absolutely necessary to pay off 
these claims. Jimmy milks the four cows every 
day, and does all the chores. When he goes she 
shall have to hire a boy ; but she will not leave 
Thornydale until every cent her husband owed 
is paid by her exertions.” 

“Will not the uncle help her?” asked Aunt 
Susan. 

“No : he says very little about her. He wants 
Jimmy. And she feels that the boy ought, for 
his own good, to go. But it is like tearing her 
heart-strings out. He will be ready to start with 
you.” 

“I do not see why he need be tacked on to 
us,” said Alice. “ Can’t he be put in charge of 
the purser ? I don’t see why we should be both- 
ered with him. I think it’s a shame. Father 
Keardon ! ” 

Father Reardon looked bewildered. He could 
not understand what Alice meant. 

“Well,” he said, after a pause, “I am glad 
little Jimmy will have his chance. He is indus- 
trious, and, please God, he may be a good priest 


ALICE AND ST. ELIZABETH 31 

some day. I suppose you’ll take him with you ? 
His uncle lives in Dublin.” 

Aunt Susan was silent. She followed her 
usual policy. She would hear the young people 
talk, and then decide. 

“ But it will be awful, Father Keardon ! ” said 
Alice. “ We’ll have no pleasure at all. Just to 
think of having that ragged little Jimmy Brogan 
with us all the time ! ” 

There was a pain f ul pause. Dick felt asham ed of 
Alice. F ather Keardon said gravely, after a time : 

“ Is it Alice who talks ? — Alice, whose patron 
and model used to be the august St. Elizabeth of 
Hungary ! Remember, my dear, that you are 
speaking of a poor child who has no friends, — 
who, separated from his mother, on his way to a 
strange land, will be doubly friendless.” 

Alice flushed, and forgetting her usual dig- 
nity, looked as if she were about to cry. 

“But, father, just think of it!” she said. 
“ The Thorndykes will be on board the steamer. 
They’re such friends of ours ! And so stylish ! 
What will they think when they see Jimmy 
Brogan, the milk-boy, running after us all the 
time?” 


32 


ST. MARTIN’S SUMMER 


“ I don’t care what they think I ” said Dick. 
“Jimmy suits me better than Alf Thorndyke. 
Why, Alf can’t send a ball straight to save his 
life ! It wouldn’t do, Alice, — we can’t be think- 
ing about the Thorndykes all the time.” 

“ Elise Thorndyke is just too refined ! ” 

“Well, if she is, she will not object to Jimmy ; 
and if she isn’t, she can’t play on my side. That’s 
all!” 

“ St. Elizabeth was a princess,” said Father 
Keardon, gently ; “ yet she loved the poor.” 


ALICEAS STRUGGLES 


33 


V 

ALICE’S STRUGGLES 

Aunt Susan decided that Jimmy Brogan 
should be of the party. Alice was silent while 
Father Keardon remained. 

It was too bad, she said to herself, that she 
should be mortified in that way before Father 
Keardon ; that this delightful trip should be so 
spoiled ; that Elise Thorndyke — the refined, the 
aristocratic Elise ! — should see her as a kind of 
guardian to Jimmy Brogan. “ It was all very 
well for St. Elizabeth,” she went on ; “ she could 
do as she pleased : she was a princess. If I were 
a princess I should not mind either. But to be 
almost a young lady ” 

At this point Alice went into a reverie, imag- 
ining herself a princess indeed, and going through 
various thrilling adventures. But, while she fan- 
cied herself a princess, she could not imagine 
herself paying any special attention to Jimmy 
Brogan. She came to the conclusion that, after 


34 


ST. maetin’s summer 


all, a princess must be a saint in order to be as 
self-sacrificing as St. Elizabeth was. 

Aunt Susan came up to say good-night. 

“Alice,” she said, gently, “I was just a little 
ashamed of you to-night.” 

Alice pouted. “ I don’t know why, aunt.” 

“My dear,” Aunt Susan said, “you must re- 
member that you are not here just to please 
yourself. You have no right to consider your 
own convenience when it is a question of doing 
an unselfish act.” 

“ But, Aunt Esmond, why should our pleasure 
be spoiled just because our milk-boy wants to go 
abroad ? ” 

“ Did you hear what Father Eeardon said 
about St. Elizabeth, your patroness ? Don’t you 
think you ought to imitate her a little more ? ” 

“St. Elizabeth was a princess; she need not 
have minded what people said.” 

“We imitate St. Elizabeth because she was a 
saint, not because she was a princess.” 

“ I don’t see why everybody's making such a 
fuss ! If you say so, I suppose Jimmy Brogan 
must go. But it spoils all our pleasant anticipa- 
tions of the trip.” 


Alice’s struggles 


35 


“ Not at all,” Mrs. Esmond said, rapidly ; “ no 
one objects but you. I insist, though, that you 
be kind to this poor boy. Father Keardon saj^s 
that he is a model of good conduct — ‘ excellency,’ 
as Dick calls it in his school jargon. Father 
Reardon says that the desire of both mother and 
son to pay off the father’s debts is most absorb- 
ing. He says that this afternoon, when he went 
there, he noticed how very poor they were, 
though everything was scrupulously neat. He 
says that they live mostly on oatmeal porridge, 
and that he is sure Jimmy looks on an occasional 
piece of cake as the height of luxury. Father 
Reardon told how tears came to his eyes when 
he saw how much the struggle to be honest costs 
Jimmy and his mother. They could live very 
decently if it were not for the hard task of pay- 
ing off the debt that hangs over them. Father 
Reardon’s description of their poverty was very 
touching.” 

Aunt Susan waited a while, fully expecting 
that her words would make a change in Alice’s 
way of thinking. But the frown on the girl’s 
forehead only deepened. 

‘‘I suppose he’ll eat with his knife and do 


36 


ST. martin’s summer 


all sorts of rude things. Dear me ! If we had 
time to write to uncle, I should tell him I would 
not go.” 

Aunt Susan said nothing except “good- 
night.” She prayed that God might make Alice 
prefer Christian duty to her own pride and 
pleasure. 

In the meantime Alice made up her mind to 
consult Elise Thorndyke about the matter, 
Alice and Elise had recently become great 
friends, and Alice felt flattered, because Elise 
wore more fashionable clothes than any other 
girl at school ; her father had the largest house in 
the place, and she had spent one year at Madame 
Kegence’s school. Elise liked to be flattered, 
and Alice’s open admiration of her was the pleas- 
antest kind of flattery. Her father was so indul- 
gent to her that she cultivated her faults rather 
than repressed them. It was unfortunate that 
Alice had become so intimate with her ; Aunt 
Susan thought so, but she hoped that Alice 
would soon see for herself how hollow-hearted 
Elise was. 

The day after Father Heardon’s visit was clear 
and bright. There was nothing left to be done 


Alice’s struggles 


37 


now. The farewell calls had been made, the 
trunks were strapped, so Alice could very easily 
make a visit to Elise as early as she chose. At 
the same time Dick, armed with a bundle, stole 
out of the house, bent on a mysterious errand. 
Alice saw him going out, but so intent was she 
on her plan that she did not even ask him whither 
he was going. 

Alice found Elise at home. She was lounging 
on a sofa, with a novel in her hand. 

“ Oh, my dear ! ” she said, in an affected voice, 
as she arose and arranged a pink shawl over her 
shoulders, “ I really didn’t know who it was. 
The servant brought no card, you know.” 

Alice blushed. She had no cards with her. 
Perhaps Elise thought she was as common as 
Jimmy Brogan. She stammered something or 
other. After a time she forgot her embarrass- 
ment in her story. 

Elise listened with interest. 

“ It can’t be ! ” she said. “ You really can’t 
associate with such people. Your Aunt Susan 
is entirely too pious. I tell you what we’ll 
do. We’ll go to Mrs. Brogan, and show her 
how presuming she is to think of such a 


38 


ST. martin’s summer 


thing. These vulgar people need to be put 
down.” 

Elise ran for her hat and jacket. And, with 
some unspoken misgivings, Alice started with her 
for Mrs. Brogan’s house. 


MRS. BROGAN 


39 


YI 

MRS. BROGAN 

There came a time when Alice felt sorry for 
having taken this walk with Elise Thorndyke; 
even then she had a qualm of conscience, but 
nevertheless, she started off down the street. 
People who passed said, “ How d’ye do. Miss 
Thorndyke ? ” and “ How do you do, Alice ? ” 
Alice wished people would call her “ Miss 
Watson.” But she did not notice that when 
people said “ Alice ” they smiled, and when they 
said ‘‘ Miss Thorndyke ” they said it very coldly. 

Elise held her head well in the air. She walked 
with what she considered a stately tread, and 
Alice did her best to imitate her. 

“ Oh, how regal you look, Elise ! ” she could 
not forbear from exclaiming. 

“ It runs in our family,” Elise replied, with an 
air of great self-satisfaction ; “ I can’t help it.” 
And she strutted with more stiffness than ever. 
“It’s the latest walk in fashionable society. 


40 


ST. martin’s summer 


Helen Worth told me all about it in a letter, so 
I practise it.” 

Alice resolved to crook her elbows and turn 
out her toes in the same manner as soon as she 
should be alone in her room. 

It was a lucky thing for their “ feelings ” that 
Dick did not see them just then. However, some 
small boys did, and they yelled “ Kangaroos I ” 
Alice forgot the new walk. Elise, however, paid 
no attention to “ the shouts of the mob,” as Alice 
phrased it in her mind. 

Mrs. Brogan’s house stood back from the main 
street. It was a neat cottage, with a well-kept, 
grassy space in front of it. At the side was an 
orchard and behind a vegetable garden. Mrs. 
Brogan’s cows were visible through the trees 
in the strip of pasture at the other side of the 
house. 

Elise pushed open the gate. 

“ O dear,” said Alice, suddenly, “ do not let us 
go in ! I think we had better not.” 

Elise smiled what Alice considered to be “ a 
haughty smile,” but made no reply. 

Mrs. Brogan was brightening up some milk- 
pans — which were already bright enough, — and 


MRS. BROGAN 


41 


she continued her work until the young girls 
entered the gravel walk. Then she smoothed 
her apron and went to meet them. 

“ Good-morning ! ” she said, in a soft, low voice. 
‘‘ Will you come in ? ” And she opened the door 
which led into a little sitting-room. 

It was a scrupulously neat room. The white 
curtains at the two windows were made whiter 
by the blazing red geraniums which stood against 
them. Alice saw with horror that there was no 
carpet on the floor. The boards were white — 
almost as white as the curtains, — and they 
showed the effect of constant scrubbing. The 
walls were also white. They were relieved by a 
fine engraving of the Immaculate Conception by 
Murillo, and a photograph of Jimmy’s father. 

Mrs. Brogan drew forth two stiff cane-seated 
chairs. The girls sat down. Mrs. Brogan did 
not recognize them. 

“Perhaps I’d better call my son,” she said; 
“ he is in the next room with a young friend ; 
he knows all about the business. I hope the 
milk gives satisfaction.” 

“ Sufficiently,” said Elise, in her loftiest tone. 
“ I am Miss Thorndyke.” 


42 


ST. martin’s summer 


Alice involuntarily looked at Mrs. Brogan, to 
see what effect this announcement would have on 
her. It had none, however. The widow sat 
down on another chair and waited. 

“ I am Miss Thorndyke,” repeated Elise. 

Mrs. Brogan looked somewhat surprised, but 
merely nodded. She was a thin, little woman, 
with a sweet but careworn expression. Her 
manner was simple and straightforward — a great 
contrast to Elise’s elaborate haughtiness. 

Alice waited for Mrs. Brogan to show some 
sign of humility at the mention of Elise’s name. 
She fancied she heard a giggle in the next room, 
and, blushing a little, she said : 

“I’m Alice Watson, Mrs. Brogan; and we’ve 
come — we’ve come ” 

She hesitated, with a feeling that she could 
never bring herself to explain why they had 
come. Mrs. Brogan’s face lighted up. 

“I am glad to see you. Miss Watson. Your 
great friend Father Keardon has often spoken of 
you. It’s very kind of you to offer to take charge 
of Jimmy.” 

Alice felt very uncomfortable. How was 
Elise’s opportunity. 


MES. BKOGAN 


43 


“That’s what we came about, Mrs. Brogan. 
We feel that you are a very nice person, indeed 
much above your station in life; and we think 
you will understand the motives that prompt us 
to visit you. Your son James — or Jimmy, as he 
is generally called, — is hardly an associate for 

Miss Watson and myself ” 

An expression of surprise and doubt crossed 
Mrs. Brogan’s face. She interrupted Elise : 

“I hope Jimmy has not done anything wrong. 

I am sure he will explain ” 

“ Oh, no ! ” said Elise ; “ no doubt, for a person 
in his class of life, he fulfils every condition ; but, 
you see, he is not exactly in our set. You know 
what I mean ? It would be awkward to intro- 
duce him to strangers. As I am going to be of 
the traveling party myself, I should feel the in- 
convenience very much.” 

Mrs. Brogan still looked puzzled. She turned 
to Alice, after a pause. 

“ I would not have Jimmy forced on you for , 
the world. I thought your aunt was willing to 
have him go with you because he was alone, go- 
ing to the same country.” 

Alice began to feel ashamed. 


44 


ST. maetin’s summee 


“ Oh, Mrs. Brogan ! ’’ she said, “ you must not 
blame Aunt Susan. We only came because we 
thought — we thought — we thought, you know, 
that Jimmy might find it pleasanter in the 

steerage. Oh, I don’t mean that ” 

Alice’s faltering gaze suddenly became fixed. 
She looked as if she had seen a ghost. Out of 
the back room came Dick, followed by Jimmy 
Brogan in a new suit of clothes. 

“She doesn’t know what she means, Mrs. 
Brogan. And as for that Elise Thorndyke, she’s 
a mean, stuck-up thing ! ” 


THE BATTLE 


45 


VII 

THE BATTLE 

Alice’s first impulse was to “ draw herself up 
haughtily ” and to ‘‘ curl her lip.” But, on 
second thought, she concluded to let Elise do 
that. But Elise did not try to do anything so 
imposing. 

“ I don’t see how you girls can call yourselves 
Christians and talk the way you do ! ” exclaimed 
Dick, with flashing eyes. “ I didn’t suppose you 
knew better, Elise Thorndyke, but I am aston- 
ished at Cousin Alice.” 

‘‘ O Dick ! ” began Alice, horrified by this at- 
tack on her dignified friend. “ How can you 
speak to Elise ” 

“ ‘ Miss Thorndyke ’ in this house, if you 
please,” said Elise, with coldness, buttoning her 
glove. 

“ Miss Thorndyke in that way ? Oh ! 

how can you, Dick ? ” 

“ Well, I can,” said Dick, putting his arm 


46 


ST. maetin’s summer 


through Jimmy’s. ‘‘And I’ll not call any girl 
‘ Miss ’ that comes saying nasty things to people. 
Of course I am only a boy ” — here Dick stopped 
to laugh derisively, — “and I can’t put on airs. 
And I wouldn’t if I could. Oh, no, I’m no- 
body ! ” Dick continued, in answer to an imagi- 
nary q-uestioner. “ I’m nobody. I don’t wear a 
high hat or carry a cane ; but I am not a sneak, 
and I will not have Jimmy’s mother made to feel 
bad.” 

“ Of course you are only a boy, and you don’t 
know the difference between elegance and vul- 
garity,” said Elise, in an exasperating voice. 

Alice turned around suddenly and said : “You 
know that’s not true, Elise Thorndyke ! ” 

Elise seemed stunned by this onslaught. Alice 
could not stand by and hear Dick attacked. But 
Elise recovered herself. 

“ I’m sure I only called Dick a boy.” 

“Well — well,” Alice began, subdued in her 
turn, “ I ” 

“ Oh, you need not take my part, Alice. You 
had better be sorry for what you have said to 
Mrs. Brogan. I know I am only a boy ; I know 
there are better boys than I am. Jimmy Brogan 


THE BATTLE 47 

is one of them. But if I wanted to be a girl, I 
wouldn’t like to be one like Liz Thorndyke.” 

“Come, Alice,” said Elise, biting her lip. 
“Coarse associations have corrupted even your 
cousin.” 

Alice began to cry. “ O Elise, believe me, that 
sort of thing does not run in our family ! ” 

“Perhaps so,” said Elise, with the air of a 
princess. “ Before I go I shall say that I hope a 
young person sunk so low as to heg a suit of 
clothes from another may refrain from forcing 
himself on his social superiors.” 

“ Oh, my ! ” said Dick, sarcastically. “ I did 
give Jimmy Brogan that suit of clothes, and it’s 
paid for. Aunt Susan said I might.” 

“ Children,” Mrs. Brogan’s low voice broke in, 
“ I must ask you not to speak in this way. It is 
not kind. Jimmy has taken Dick’s suit of clothes 
with my consent. We are poor, as you know ; 
and though we are not poor enough to take alms, 
we are rich enough to be able to accept a kind- 
ness that comes from a good heart. I am afraid, 
after what has occurred, that I shall have to find 
some other way of sending Jimmy to his 
uncle.” 


48 ST. martin’s summer 

“ A very proper resolution,” said Elise from the 
doorway. 

“ I think that my Jimmy is neither rude nor 
selfish,” said Mrs. Brogan, with a glance at 
Jimmy, who did look remarkably well in his new 
suit which had been too tight for Dick. “ And I 
know you would not have had reason to feel 
ashamed of him. But ” 

“ Excuse me, Mrs. Brogan,” said Dick, hotly ; 
“ but Aunt Susan and Bose and Bernard 
and I want Jimmy to go. We do not want 
Elise, if it comes to that. We’d rather hav^e 
Jimmy.” 

‘‘ I cannot endure this,” said Elise. “ Come, 
Alice. Your cousin is an unworthy sign of a 
regenerate race.” 

With this remarkable speech Elise left, fol- 
lowed with a respectful and mournful pace by 
Alice. 

Dick merely said, “ Goodbye, Liz,” in a scath- 
ing tone. 

Jimmy went up to his mother and kissed her 
on the cheek. 

“ I know what you are thinking of, mother,” 
he said tenderly. “ You are thinking that I feel 


THE BATTLE 


49 


bad, but I do not. What people say eannot hurt 
us.’’ 

A tear rolled down Mrs. Brogan’s cheek. 

“ It is a little hard, Jimmy — a little hard to be 
looked down on. Well, well, — it is all right, if 
we understand it right.” 

Dick clenched his fist. 

“ Oh, a nice Child of Mary Elise Thorndyke 
is, — a sweet-scented one ! Oh, yes ! If Father 
Reardon does not turn her out for forcing Alice 
to make such a fool of herself, I’m not Dick 
Watson.” 

“ Do not mention it to Father Reardon,” said 
Mrs. Brogan, in alarm. Sure the girls have 
done no harm.” 

“I will mention it to Father Reardon,” an- 
swered Dick, seeing his chance to make a bar- 
gain, “ unless you promise to let Jimmy go with 
us.” 

‘‘ I will see Mrs. Esmond, ” said Mrs. Brogan. 
“ But I must get to my work.” 

“ I’ll see her myself first,” Dick muttered. 

He said good-bye, and ran down the street. 


50 


ST. martin’s summer 


Till 

AUNT SUSAN’S DECISION 

It must be admitted that Dick’s motives in 
taking Jimmy’s part so valiantly, and perhaps so 
offensively, were not unmixed. He liked Jimmy 
and he wanted to please Father Keardon. But, 
above all, he was resolved “ to spite Elise Thorn- 
dyke.” This spoiled much that was good in what 
otherwise would have been an impulse with which 
we could entirely sympathize. 

Alice and Elise walked homeward in silence. 
Elise had a feeling that she had not come off well 
in her war of words with Dick. Alice was sure 
that Elise had been too hard on Dick, though she 
could not understand how Dick could have so far 
forgotten himself as to call the elegant Elise by 
the inelegant name of “ Liz.” 

“ And all for Jimmy Brogan ! ” she broke out 
suddenly. 

“ Do not let us think of it,” said Elise, loftily. 
“ I am above such things — oh, dear, look at those 


AUNT SUSAN’S DECISION 51 

caramels! They are quite fresh, too” — they 
were passing a shop window. — “ My dear, you 
are well enough, but you have not the Thorndyke 
repose of manner.” 

Alice saw that her friend was offended. 

“ Do wait till I get some of those vanilla cara- 
mels ! ” she said, propitiatingly. 

“ Oh, do ! ” cried Elise, losing all her repose of 
manner. “ I love caramels.” 

In this way good humor was restored for a 
time. Alice had qualms of conscience; but, as 
she admitted, she was dependent on her associa- 
tions. 

****** 

Bernard and Kose heard Dick’s version of the 
encounter at Jimmy Brogan’s with various feel- 
ings. Kose was sorry for everybody. Bernard 
was more indignant at Alice’s conduct than 
Elise’s. It had been well talked over when Alice 
arrived home. That young lady paused a while 
at the door to dispose of her last caramel, and 
then entered the house with what she said to her- 
self was “ quiet dignity.” She resolved to change 
this for her manner of “injured innocence” if 
Aunt Susan said anything. 


52 


ST. martin’s summer 


The three at home had planned to let Alice 
begin to talk about the occurrence of the morn- 
ing before they would mention it. 

Eose danced out into the hall. 

Aunt Susan’s almost ready to have lunch ; 
she is waiting for you to make the coffee.” 

“I’ll go at once,” Alice said; and then she 
added, “ Eose, what are you looking at me that 
way for ? ” 

“ I’m not looking at you that way,” said Eose, 
confusedly dropping her glance. 

“ Yes, you are.” 

At this moment Bernard appeared in the hall. 

“ You are going to catch it, Alice ! ” he said, 
sympathizingly. 

“ Does Aunt Susan know ? ” asked Alice, off 
her guard. 

“ Ho, but you’ll catch it when she does 
know.” 

Alice “ swept ” into the dining-room, encoun- 
tering Dick. 

“ So I am not refined enough for Elise Thorn- 
dyke, am I ? ” he asked. “ I wasn’t a knight in 
eleven hundred and something, was I ? ” And 
then he added, feeling that this was the unkind- 


AUNT SUSAN’S DECISION 63 

est cut of all, “I don’t believe there ever were 
any knights in the family ! ” 

Alice “ drew herself up to her full height,” — 
that is, she stood on the tips of her toes. “ I 
sometimes wonder,” she said, solemnly, ‘‘ that the 
Banshee of the Jewish side of the family does not 
strike you dead.” 

“ Because there is no Banshee,” said Dick. 

His cousin went into the kitchen and made the 
coffee, not Avithout some misgivings as to what 
Aunt Susan would say. 

Aunt Susan spoiled these children somewhat. 
So far they had felt none of the roughnesses of 
life. Alice had of late been allowed to read too 
much, and to move about in a kind of dream ; 
and Dick, Bose and Bernard had, as a rule, man- 
aged to get everything they wanted. It was 
easy for them to be generous, for they had never 
learned to be just. 

After luncheon Aunt Susan talked a while on 
the need of having everything ready for the jour- 
ney in the morning. And then the story of 
Alice’s visit came out. 

“And did you really do this, Alice?” asked 
Aunt Susan, leaning back in her chair, with a little 


54 


ST. martin’s summer 


frown on her forehead. It always came there 
when Aunt Susan was annoyed. 

“ Yes, I did, aunt.” 

“ And did Elise dare to talk that way to poor 
Mrs. Brogan ? ” 

“ Elise expressed her opinion plainly. And I 
am very sure, aunt, that Elise Thorndyke will 
not sail in the same steamer with Jimmy 
Brogan.” 

Aunt Susan looked at Alice as if she could not 
credit the testimony of her ears ; she only uttered 
what was her uttermost evidence of displeasure : 

“ Alice Watson ! ” 

“ Alice Elizabeth Watson ! ” echoed Dick. 

“Kichard,” said Aunt Susan, severely, “you 
were no doubt very impudent to-day to the girls. 
People who criticise others should be careful to 
correct their own faults.” 

Aunt Susan said no more. 

Mrs. Brogan went out that afternoon to buy 
Jimmy some articles he needed for the voyage. 
Coming horhe, she found a note from Aunt 
Susan : 

Dear Mrs. Brogan : — We shall start for New 
York at nine o’clock to-morrow. I shall expect 


AUNT SUSAN’S DECISION 


56 


Jimmy to be ready in time. We shall call for 
him with the carriage. Do not worry about 
parting from him. It is for his good. 

Susan Esmond. 

Mrs. Brogan put her thin, wrinkled hands to 
her eyes. Tears trickled through them. The 
thought of letting her boy go was very hard to 
bear. 


66 


ST. maetin’s summer 


IX 

THEY ARE OFF 

They started at last. Elise and Alfred 
Thorndyke had kissed their father good-bye 
(they were going to their mother in London), and 
now they sat very stiff and well satisfied with 
themselves in the parlor car. Alice and Eose 
and Dick and Bernard were on the back plat- 
form, waving good-byes vigorously. Jimmy 
Brogan, with his little traveling bag beside him 
was in a corner of a seat. He was very silent. 
There was a heavy weight on his heart. He felt 
an impulse to jump off the platform and to run 
back to his dear mother, who, he knew, was 
weeping alone in the station. 

Alone ! How heavy that word fell on his 
heart ! And how lonely she was ! The thought 
of her standing there, wrapped in her thin 
shawl, and trying to keep the tears from the 
sight of the strangers around her, seemed 
almost to break his heart. He said to himself 


THEY ARE OFF 


57 


that he could never smile again, — no, he could 
never smile again until he should return to 
that dear mother just as she would have him. 
He would learn. He would please his uncle. 
He would read every book in the world. He 
would go back to his mother some day, and 
she would be proud of him, and they would 
both say that all this sorrow was worth bearing 
for the good it would bring. And this dream 
cheered him up. He raised his eyes and met 
Aunt Susan’s comforting glance. He sighed 
once or twice, and then he began to enjoy 
the comfort of the parlor car, and the moving 
panorama that passed the car windows. 

The Watsons returned to their seats. And 
Elise Thorndyke and Alfred began a game of 
parchesi. Elise had made up her mind to be 
very exclusive. She was resolved that if the 
Watsons would insist on “dragging Jimmy 
Brogan with them ” they should feel the con- 
sequences. Alf was known at school as “the 
moon.” He had a way of looking solemn that 
reminded people of a full moon. He was a 
quiet boy, with good intentions, but between 
his father and Elise he had been much spoiled. 


58 


ST. martin’s summer 


His father was over-indulgent, and Elise had 
imbued her brother with a very foolish spirit 
of pride. 

Alice felt that she was in disgrace with Elise. 
She offered that exclusive person a box of 
candy; but Elise said, “Thank you,” and re- 
fused it. Jimmy was attentive to Aunt Susan : 
he brought her a glass of water, and arranged 
her bundles comfortably for her; he noticed 
that the pages of her magazine were uncut, 
and, taking out his penknife, he cut them for 
her. He was so polite and so kind that Aunt 
Susan could not forbear comparing him very 
favorably with the exclusive and selfish Thorn- 
dykes. 

After a short period of solitary grandeur 
Elise relented, and proposed that they should all 
play dominoes. The dominoes were produced, 
and Jimmy left out of the game. Dick did not 
notice it. Alfred Thorndyke once, in the ex- 
citement of a moment, dared to smile at Jimmy ; 
but Elise caught his glance, and Alf looked 
down in disgrace. 

The young folk gathered to the Thorndyke side 
of the car. Jimmy was forgotten. He would 


THEY AEE OFF 


59 


have liked to join their game; for play was a 
novelty to him, and he enjoyed it all the more. 
He began to be lonely and down-hearted again. 
Aunt Susan was interested in her book ; the 
children were lost in their game. Jimmy’s 
mother had often said to him, “ When thinking 
of your own hardships makes you gloomy, turn 
away from yourself and think of somebody else.” 

Jimmy went to the ice- water tank to divert 
his thoughts. As he came down the aisle 
again — if we may use the word aisle^ to ex- 
press a passageway in the centre of anything, 
— he saw that an old gentleman with a very 
red face was looking for something under his 
seat. An elderly lady near him looked very 
anxious and perplexed, and the old gentleman 
evidently felt very much the exertion of bending 
down and searching for the lost object. 

Here was Jimmy’s chance. 

“ Can I be of use ? ” he asked of the lady. 

The old gentleman grunted rather crustily. 
But the lady said : 

“ Let this little boy look for the tickets, John, 
since he is so kind.” 

Aisle means a wing — a passage at the side. 


60 


ST. martin’s summer 


The old gentleman resumed his seat, wiped 
his flushed face, and permitted Jimmy to crawl 
around under the various chairs in search of 
his missing tickets. It was evidently a great 
relief to him to be saved the necessity of 
stooping.. He wiped his face with his handker- 
chief and watched the kind-hearted boy with 
interest. 

“Well, Sarah,” the old gentleman said, “the 
tickets are gone, and no mistake. We’ll have 
to pay our fare again.” 

Jimmy searched carefully. But the tickets 
could not be found. The old gentleman fussed 
and fumed, and blamed everybody, until his 
wife was almost in tears. 

Jimmy thought that even the loss of the flve 
dollar gold piece Father Keardon had given 
him would not cause him to be so disagreeable. 
And this five dollar gold piece was very precious 
to Jimmy. Father Reardon’s five dollar gold 
pieces were not plenty. He had a poor parish, 
and what he received he was obliged to give 
back again ; for everybody in need came to him. 
Jimmy knew this, and he held it very dear. 

Every place seemed to have been searched for 


THEY ARE OFF 


61 


the missing pasteboards. Jimmy had worked 
like a Greek building the wooden horse before 
the walls of Troy. He was tired but cheerful. 

“ You have more perseverance than any boy 
I ever met,” observed the lady, gratefully. 

The old gentleman’s pockets had been turned 
inside out — everything had been done. Sud- 
denly Jimmy said : 

“ Why don’t you pray to St. Antony ? ” 

“ St. Antony ? — who’s St. Antony ? ” de- 
manded the old gentleman, gruffly. 

“ St. Antony of Padua, of course,” returned 
Jimmy, — “ but I beg pardon ! I forgot. I 
didn’t think that you might not be Cath- 
olics.” 

The lady smiled. ‘‘Suppose you pray to St. 
Antony ? ” she said. 

“ Well, I wm.” 

Jimmy took off his hat and made his little 
prayer. And the old gentleman, who was very 
courteous in spite of his bad temper, took off 
his hat. Jimmy’s quick eyes caught sight of 
something between the inside band of the old 
gentleman’s very respectable tall hat. 

“ Allow me, sir,” Jimmy said — and pulled out 


62 


ST. martin’s summer 


the missing tickets. “ I knew St. Antony would 
hear me,” he added, gravely. 

Until they reached New York Jimmy sat 
with these kind people, and was treated to 
every imaginable delicacy that could be carried 
in a large bag. 


NEW YORK AT LAST 


63 


X 

NEW YORK AT LAST 

The young people were very sleepy when 
they entered the great black station. But 
when they descended from the car the noise 
and the glitter of the city made them wide 
awake. A few steps into the street, and sud- 
denly a flaming meteor seemed to flash over 
their heads. 

‘‘ O look ! ” Dick cried. And even the exclu- 
sive Miss Thorndyke screamed. 

It was an elevated railroad car. Elise, to 
make up for her display of astonishment, 
turned and rebuked Alfred. 

‘‘Everybody sees you'vQ from the country,” 
she said. “Don’t seem so surprised at every- 
thing.” 

“I’m not surprised,” retorted Alfred. “It’s 
you I ” 

“Why should I be surprised?” demanded 
Elise, conscious that Jimmy Brogamwas near 
her. “ I was here once before.” 


64 


ST. martin’s summer 


“But that was when you were a baby, and 
father and mother came this way ” 

Elise gave him “ one of her looks,” and froze 
the words on his lips. Dick laughed, and re- 
marked : 

“ I say, Elise, there’s no use putting on airs in 
this crowd.” 

Elise raised her head in the air, and stepped 
into the comfortable and brightly lit car with 
what Alice would have called “ a haughty 
stride.” 

At the hotel Aunt Susan disposed of her 
charges comfortably, and sleep was not long 
in making them forget the rumbling and roll- 
ing of vehicles without, which strange sounds 
kept poor Aunt Susan awake and restless all 
night. 

The next day Aunt Susan found a little note 
for Jimmy from Mr. and Mrs. Drew, thanking 
him for his kindness to them, and enclosing a 
little volume of “The Following of Christ.” 
For the first time Jimmy learned the names 
of the old gentleman and his wife whose 
tickets he had found in the car. 

Aunt Susan became very nervous. The 


NEW YORK AT LAST 


65 


Oceanic — their steamer — was to start at two 
o’clock. Poor Aunt Susan was ready at eleven. 
Their friend in New York had taken the young 
people out to see the city, and Aunt Susan, with 
her cloak and bonnet on, waited in the deepest 
anxiety for their return. When they did come 
back she made them bolt their lunch, and then, 
in spite of all remonstrances, tried to hurry them 
down to the pier. Nevertheless, the things she 
remembered and the things she forgot took up a 
great deal of time, and they were delayed by 
these for an hour at least. 

Aunt Susan was in such a flutter that she 
forgot all the precious bundles she had gathered 
together. 

“ Where did I leave the lemons ? ” she ex- 
claimed. ‘‘ If Kose should be seasick what 
could you do without lemons ? ” 

The lemons, however, did not turn up. Aunt 
Susan was inconsolable until somebody suggested 
that lemons might be had on board the Oceanic. 

The pier was crowded with porters carrying 
luggage, florists’ boys with baskets of flowers 
and -bouquets ; fathers, mothers, brothers, and 
sisters, — all taking leave of people about to de- 


66 


ST. martin’s summer 


part. Above the clamor sounded the notes of a 
brass band stationed on a tugboat, which had 
been hired by some New Yorkers to escort a 
celebrity down the bay. This music quite ex- 
tinguished any symptoms of homesickness the 
young people were beginning to feel. Jimmy 
Brogan’s sadness was returning, but the gay 
scene around him made him forget it for a 
moment. 

At last they were on board. The decks were 
crowded. Aunt Susan went below with Elise, 
Alice, and Kose to look at their berths. Elise 
flatly declared that she would not sleep in such 
a little place. Why, it was no better than a 
board put up against the wall! Besides, the 
sea might run in through the port-hole and 
drown her! The stewardess had to be sent 
for, and Elise insisted on stating her objec- 
tions to her. Couldn’t she have a larger bed- 
room? she demanded. The stewardess smiled, 
and said it was one of the best berths on board. 
Elise was left alone, lamenting. 

Aunt Susan suddenly remembered that she had 
bought no steamer-chairs. Steamer-chairs are a 
necessity, she knew ; for there are none provided. 


NEW YOKE AT LAST 


67 


and it is not pleasant to stand on deck or to bor- 
row somebody’s else chair. She saw some for 
sale on the pier, and Jimmy volunteered to go 
down and get them for her. She hastily counted 
her flock and gave him some money. 

“ Do not forget to buy one for yourself,” she 
said. 

Jimmy blushed. “ I don’t think I can afford 
it,” he answered. 

“ Oh, you must buy one ! ” cried Aunt Susan. 
“ You must ! You can buy it for me, and keep 
it until I want it.” 

Jimmy took the amiable lady at her word and 
bought the steamer-chairs. He had hardly re- 
gained the deck when the word was given, and 
all strangers prepared to leave the steamer. 
Aunt Susan was hurried away by Mr. Duffy. 
She went, weeping. The girls wept too. Dick 
pretended to be looking far away towards Coney 
Island, and Jimmy began to cry a little when 
Aunt Susan kissed him good-bye with the rest. 

Slowly the Oceanic parted from the crowded 
pier. The band played “ Home, Sweet Home ! ” 
and our young friends suddenly realized that they 
were really going away. The purser, Mr. Kich- 


68 


ST. martin’s summer 


ards, stepped up to them and promised to see that 
they were made comfortable. Alice could hardly 
thank him. There was a great lump in her throat. 

Down the great bay they glided. The pan- 
orama on each side of them was lovely. The 
magnificent city, under the declining sun, moved 
farther and farther from them. The wooded 
banks, the forts, the strips of sand, the summer 
resorts by the sea, slipped past. At dusk glit- 
tering lights were all they saw on the wide ex- 
panse of dim water. Then even Dick felt lonely. 
He would have given a great deal to be back at 
Thornydale. 

The dining-room with its glow, and the move- 
ments of the swinging shelves holding bright 
glass and silver, helped to raise their spirits. 
Jimmy was surprised to find himself seated near 
some people he knew. A lady tapped him on the 
arm. He turned : it was Mrs. Drew. She smiled 
at him and said : 

“ Oh, I am glad to see you ! I had no idea we 
should sail on the same vessel. Are you not 
afraid of the sea ? ” 

'‘Ho,” said Jimmy. “Why should I be? 
There is not much danger now, is there ? ” 


NEW YORK AT LAST 


69 


“ There does not seem to be. The spring has 
opened, and I think that there have not been 
many icebergs in the track of our steamers so 
far this year. It is a very pleasant time to cross 
the great pond. But,” she added with a smile, 
“ a boy that has such strong faith in St. Antony 
must have stronger faith in God.” 

“I have, ma’am,” answered Jimmy. “My 
mother has always said that we are as safe on 
sea as on land, if we are in the grace of God.” 

Mrs. Drew sighed a little. During the pause a 
voice was heard saying, 

“It’s all very well to talk of a good time for 
crossing the ocean, but we forget the raft.” 

It was old Mr. Drew who spoke. 

“If we should happen to strike some of the 
floating logs ” 

Half a dozen voices demanded an explanation. 
And he proceeded to give it, beginning, 

“ I assure you that we shall be in great danger 
for some days to come ” 

There was a crash, and all except the captain 
started to their feet. 

The captain, who sat at the head of the table, 
frowned. He did not like this talk about danger 


YO ST. martin’s summer 

at the dinner-table. It made people nervous, and 
nervous people were the bane of his life. 

“ Are we going down ? Are we going down ? ” 
demanded Mrs. Drew. But her husband’s voice 
reassured her, although his accents were not par- 
ticularly pleasant. He spoke from the floor. 
The waiters ran to pick him up, and while they 
were about it they also picked the pieces of a 
goblet which Mr. Drew had carried in his hand 
when a sudden movement of the steamer had 
thrown him down. Old Mr. Drew was in a bad 
humor, and his fall did not soften it. He took 
his seat at the table, and after a time confessed 
that he was looking for lemons when he fell. 

The captain lost patience at this, and broke 
out : 

“ I do not see why people should always insist 
on looking for things that are before their eyes. 
If you observe the pyramid of fruit in the centre 
of the table you will see half a dozen lemons. 
You may be sure you will always And everything 
that is necessary on a well-appointed steamer.” 

Mr. Drew grumbled out that he did not see 
any lemons, and relapsed into silence. 

When dinner was over the children went on 


NEW YORK AT LAST 

deck. It was a moonlight night, calm, serene. 
The crescent, slender and silver — as we see it in 
Murillo’s famous picture called the Immaculate 
Conceptions — sent a soft light through the air, 
which was slightly hazy. 

Dick was curious about the raft. He waited 
until he saw Mr. Drew carefully wrapped in his 
shawls and deposited in his chair on deck before 
he ventured to approach the old gentleman. 

“ I wish you would tell me something about 
that raft.” 

“Don’t know anything about it,” said Mr. 
Drew, shortly. 

“ I thought you said ” 

“I don’t know anything about it, I tell you. 
I wish I did. It’s somewhere on the ocean. 
We’ll probably meet it, and then — well, we’ll 
know it ihens'^ he added, grimly. 

Dick began to feel cold chills creeping down 
his back. What could the old gentleman mean ? 

Jimmy and Alfred came over to Mr. Drew’s 
chair. The sight of Jimmy seemed to put him 
in a good humor. 

“ There’s a. boy that doesn’t ask questions, so 
I’ll tell him about the raft. Sit down here,” he 


ST. martin’s summer 


Y2 

said, pushing his footstool forward. Jimmy took 
it. “The raft is mine. It consists of over a 
hundred dollars’ worth of lumber, which I had 
welded together, and which was to be towed to 
New York. But, through some mischance, the 
vessel to which it was attached lost it in a storm. 
The raft is made up of huge logs. If it separates 
and even one of those logs strikes our steamer, it 
will knock a hole through her. As it will prob- 
ably occur at night, we’ll all go down.” 

Alfred Thorndyke turned pale. But a glance 
at the calm, sparkling sea made him feel coura- 
geous. Surely nothing dreadful could happen on 
such a night ! 

“ It’s a great loss to me,” continued Mr. Drew ; 
“ and I am going to Liverpool to see if I cannot 
hire some cruisers to look for it. I have already 
offered a handsome reward. The worst of it is, 
this is not the first raft I’ve lost. A bigger and 
more valuable one served me the same trick three 
years ago. The most curious thing about it is 
that it has never broken to pieces— or, at least, 
the pieces have never been sighted by any pass- 
ing vessels. But, I tell you, boys, if we strike 
either of those rafts we’re gone ! ” 


NEW YORK AT LAST 


73 


Alfred shuddered. Dick began to calculate 
what amount he would deserve if he succeeded 
in finding the raft some time, and in towing it to 
shore. Suppose he should never see his mother 
again I 


74 


ST. martin’s summer 


XI 

ANOTHER TELEGRAM 

Mr. Drew managed to make the young peo- 
ple very nervous about the rafts, and he was 
talking about the danger that would beset every 
vessel crossing their path when Mr. Eichards, 
the purser, came up and gave Jimmy a yellow 
envelope. 

“ I am sorry that I could not give this to you 
sooner,” the purser said ; “ but it was laid on my 
desk just as the steamer was about to start, and, 
in the confusion, I did not notice it until a few 
minutes ago.” 

Jimmy thanked him, and said it did not mat- 
ter. It was a telegram. A parting word from 
his mother perhaps ! He did not open it ; he said 
to himself that he would wait until he should be 
alone. 

Mr. Drew went on about the rafts : “ I’d give 

twenty-five thousand dollars out of my own 
pocket this minute if either of those rafts could 
be towed to shore. I would indeed ! ” 


ANOTHER TELEGRAM 


75 


“ I fancy the steamship companies would give 
almost as much,” said the purser. “ The thought 
that he might run into the rafts any night, or 
have a log pierce his armor, has made many a 
captain anxious all the way from Liverpool to 
New York.” 

“ I wish I could find one of those rafts ! ” cried 
Dick. “ I’d be rich and have a pony and every- 
thing I want.” 

“ Don’t talk nonsense ! ” said old Mr. Drew, 
sharply. “ You’re not likely to get rich in that 
way. — What would you do if you were to sight 
one of my rafts first and claim and receive the 
reward, Jimmy ? ” 

“ What wouldn’t he do ? ” put in Dick. 

Jimmy said: “I can’t tell you.” But in his 
mind he saw himself paying off his father’s 
debts ; he saw his mother on a winter afternoon 
knitting quietly in her chair, instead of cleaning 
the milk-pans with frozen fingers ; he saw him- 
self reading to her, and raising his head every 
now and then to look at her pleased face. Oh, 
what happiness ! 

But the vision faded. He reflected that, after 
all, in a few years he would return to her, learned 


76 


ST. martin’s summer 


and capable of helping her. How fortunate he 
was to have an uncle who would give him this 
chance! Hitherto all his thoughts had been 
gloomy, for they had been thoughts of parting. 
How he began to think of hope — of his return, of 
the results of the chances his uncle would give 
him. 

Mr. Drew ceased to talk. Alfred yawned and 
went down to his berth. Dick and Jimmy wan- 
dered into a brighter part of the deck. Jimmy 
tore open the envelope; he felt that he need have 
no secrets from Dick. The telegram had come 
to Hew York by cable from London. It ran : 

James Brogan, Steamship Oceanic^ Hew York. 

Your uncle, Colonel J. Brogan, died yesterday. 
Do not come. 

C. Vincent & Co., Attorneys. 

Jimmy was stunned. His castle in the air fell 
to pieces, and the horror of his position burst 
upon him. He was speeding towards England. 
There was no friend to meet him there. He had 
no money. How could he get back again to his 
mother? And when he had r>eached her, how 
sad it would be to have to tell her that her 
dreams were useless, — that there would be noth- 


ANOTHEK TELEGRAM 77 

ing foi* her henceforth but hard work, and no 
school, no study for him ! 

“ O Dick ! ” was all he could say. No tears 
came to his eyes. He looked out towards the 
moonlit sea and saw no hope. 

“ It’s too bad ! ” cried Dick, reading the tele- 
gram. “ What a stupid man ! Why did he die 
just now ? Some people ” 

‘‘ He couldn’t help it, Dick ; you know that. 
I wish I had received this telegram before we left 
New York.” 

“There’s no use in wishing. How are you 
going to get back ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

Dick said nothing. He left his friend leaning 
sadly against the bulwark, and made his way 
down to the ladies’ saloon, where the girls and 
Bernard were. He very impolitely interrupted 
Elise Thorndyke in her recitation of “ Spartacus 
to the Gladiators,” and told Jimmy’s story. 

“ Now, girls,” he said, “ I move that we make 
up a purse to send him back. Aunt Susan gave 
me ten dollars, Alice has as much for spending 
money ; Kose has five, and Bernard has five.” 

“ You can have mine ! ” cried Kose. 


78 


ST. MARTINIS SUMMER 


“ And mine ! ’’ said Bernard. 

“ I don’t see why you should encourage this 
young person to depend on people in this way,” 
said Elise. “ I hope Alice will not be so foolish 
with her money. 

“ You hope she’ll buy caramels and chewing 
gum for you, don’t you ? ” cried Dick. 

“ I never use chewing gum,” returned Elise, in 
“freezing accents.” “Your language is as in- 
sulting as one might expect from a confidant of 
low persons.” 

“ Oh, hear her ! ” said Dick. “ She’s been 
reading dime novels. I say, Alice, come help the 
poor fellow out. Put in your ten dollars.” 

“ If she does she ceases to be my friend,” con- 
tinued Elise. 

“Oh, do not say that!” exclaimed Alice, 
clasping her hands. “ Dick, you cannot ask me 
to make such a sacrifice ! ” 

“ More dime novels ! ” said Dick. “ I’ll tell 
Aunt Susan. I never heard of such heartless- 
ness.” 

“Come, Alice. Your cousin’s rudeness quite 
frightens me.” And Elise and Alice, their heads 
high in the air, “ sailed ” out of the saloon. 


ANOTHER TELEGRAM 


79 


Rose, Bernard, and Dick went up on deck — 
Dick in a state of indignation. It was shameful 
that his own cousin should be so influenced by a 
girl like Elise, he said to himself. He and Rose 
and Bernard had a little conference, during which 
certain notes and silver pieces exchanged hands. 

Jimmy still stood near the bulwark. The 
moonlit sea, which a short time before had made 
him feel glad at heart, now seemed to threaten 
him. He bowed his head between his hands. 
Mr. Drew passed on his way to his berth. 

“ Halloo, Jimmy ! ” he said, laughing. “ Are 
you praying to St. Antony to bring my rafts safe 
into your hands ? ” 

Jimmy tried to smile. But he took Mr. 
Drew’s hint, and prayed with all his might that 
the potent St. Antony might show him a way 
out of the darkness which, he thought, was 
almost too thick even for St. Antony to brighten. 
He prayed, nevertheless, with all his heart. 

Suddenly a soft little hand clasped his and a 
small roll was thrust into it. He turned. There 
was Rose, her face very sweet and anxious, 
standing before him. She seemed half inclined 
to run away as he turned. 


80 


ST. martin’s summer 


“You are to keep that, Jimmy,” she whis- 
pered “ Dick says you need it. It’s not much, 
but it’s all we have.” 

A lump rose in Jimmy’s throat. “I can’t — I 
can’t ! Tell Dick I’ll work my way back.” 

Rose, like a little fawn, disappeared. 


LOST 


81 


XII 

LOST 

Three days passed. Jimmy told his story to 
the purser. Mr. Drew heard it, and promised to 
see that Jimmy should be sent back to his 
mother. In the meantime Elise and Alice and 
Alfred walked up and down the deck, giggling 
and “ telling secrets,” as Kose put it. Elise once 
asked Dick how his “ friend ” was, and whether 
all his “ friends ” begged for money or not. 

“ He gave it back ! ” cried Dick ; ‘‘ and I shall 
always stand by him. I wish I were as good as 
he is.” 

“ Oh, you’re birds of a feather ! ” retorted 
Elise. “And that’s not saying much to your 
credit.” 

Dick avoided Elise after that. “ If I let that 
girl make me angry any more times, I’ll have 
an awful lot of sins to confess when I get to 
Liverpool.” 

Jimmy approved of his resolution to keep out 


82 


ST. martin’s summer 


of temptation. And so the Thornydale young 
people divided themselves into two parties. 
Alice and Elise read novels, and occasionally told 
Alfred how charming and aristocratic they were 
compared to the other people on board the 
Oceanic. Alfred found it dull ; but he was afraid 
of Elise, who informed everybody that the “ Bro- 
gan boy ” was not really of their party. 

At the end of three days everybody on board, 
except Mr. Drew, had almost forgotten the dan- 
ger of the floating logs. The steamer rushed 
through the parting waves night and day. The 
trip would be one of the fastest on record if the 
speed was kept up. Mr. Drew spent his time 
waiting for seasickness, and eating lemons to 
prevent it. Kone of our young people was sea- 
sick; Alice had a qualm or two, but she con- 
cealed them bravely. 

On the fourth night of the voyage a storm 
arose. It did not last long, however. It was a 
mere hatful of wind. At dinner on the fifth day 
a shock was felt from stem to stern of the 
Oceanic. The captain said nothing when a word 
was whispered in his ear by a messenger from 
the deck ; nobody thought much about it, so cool 


LOST 


83 


was his manner. The speed of the steamer 
slackened ; it became evident that something was 
the matter. But, as there was to be a concert in 
the saloon, and the captain seemed much in- 
terested in it, there was no commotion among 
the passengers. 

The next day dawned on a quiet sea. After 
breakfast the captain asked the gentlemen 
aboard to get together their valuables, and to 
prepare to take to the boats. 

“ There is a leak,” he said, “ which we cannot 
stop. One of my crew who was aboard the 
Oregon^ which went down outside of New York, 
says that he cannot account for the blow the 
Oceanic has received — for she has evidently re- 
ceived a blow. The hole in the side of our 
steamer is similar to that which was found in the 
Oregon,^'* The captain added that there was 
plenty of time : there need be no hurry. And 
the passengers went away, after asking many 
questions, to make their preparations. 

In a short time everybody on board knew 
what had happened. The captain, with wise 
forethought, told the passengers just how far 
they were from land. He calculated that in five 


84 


ST. maktin’s summer 


hours they would strike a point from which an 
ocean steamer could easily be sighted. He ex- 
pressed the deepest regret at having to abandon 
his magnificent ship, but set an example of 
hopeful resignation which his passengers profited 

by- 

The boats were manned in the most orderly 
manner. Mr. and Mrs. Drew insisted that 
Jimmy should go with them. But, catching 
Dick’s beseeching glance, he cast his lot with the 
young people from Thornydale. Elise was not 
at all pleased at this, and she showed her feeling 
very plainly. Jimmy did not mind that. He 
felt that his strong, well-trained muscles might 
be of use. And he was right. His great regret 
was that he could not take Aunt Susan’s steamer 
chair with him. However, he would buy her 
another when he could afford it. Some of the 
ladies wept and exclaimed, but they were assured 
that it was possible that their trunks would be 
saved if a steamer should pass that way. The 
captain promised that he would leave a boat’s 
crew on the lookout. Each boat was well pro- 
visioned, and after a luncheon, at which every- 
body tried to be as merry as possible, the boats 


LOST 


85 


were filled. The steamer during this time was 
settling deeper into the water. The word was 
given, and the boats went off in regular order. 

The sun shone brightly from a clear sky. The 
deck of the Oceanic was clean and neat. The 
flag fluttered. But, graceful and beautiful as she 
was, the hand of destruction had touched her. 
Jimmy had seen somewhere the picture of a dy- 
ing elephant in an African forest, deserted by the 
herd. He thought of it now. Farther and 
farther the swift oars bore them from their ocean 
home. The girls began to cry, and poor Kose 
crept close to Dick. 

“ I am afraid ! I am afraid ! ” she said. 

“ Hever mind,” Dick whispered ; “ we are all 
together.” 

The young people, the purser, and four sailors 
were in the yawl. There was plenty of room in 
each boat, for the Oceanic had been well pro- 
vided with all kinds of appliances. 

The young people soon lost their sadness, as 
the stately and lonely Oceanic grew to be a speck 
in the distance. The brisk motion and the fresh 
salt air revived their spirits. They sang and told 
stories until the twilight fell, and with the tvvi- 


86 


ST. martin’s summer 


light came the warnings of a storm. Still, the 
word was passed that in another hour land would 
be in sight. 

Darkness fell. The waves dashed against the 
yawl higher and higher. The other boats could 
not be seen. Their lanterns, so visible a few 
moments before, were lost in the turmoil around. 
Jimmy was the first to realize that they were 
lost in the unknown sea. 


THE RISING OF THE MOON 


87 


XIII 

THE RISING OF THE MOON 

Darkness was around them. All eyes were 
strained for a glimpse of the lights of the other 
boats. Mr. Richards, the purser, took out his 
whistle and blew long and loud Nothing but 
the roar of the waves answered. Again he blew 
a shrill blast. No human response came back. 
Then he asked all in the boat to shout as loud 
as they could, and they obeyed. But the roar 
of the waves had now become so loud that no 
sound could be heard above it. 

Nobody spoke. All except Rose now under- 
stood that they were separated from their friends. 
A load fell on their hearts. Elise began to cry 
and to complain. “ Oh, why had she come into 
this boat? Why had she not stayed with the 
captain ? It was Alice’s fault ! If she had fol- 
lowed her own ideas she would have gone with 
the others.” Mr. Richards was at last obliged 
to tell her to keep quiet, and to ask the girls to 


88 ST. martin’s summer 

cover themselves entirely with the tarpaulin. 
The sea was growing more and more turbulent. 
To the boys it seemed as if the waves were run- 
ning mountain high. 

Mr. Richards served some biscuits and jam and 
preserved beef, with cold coffee, for supper. The 
young people, in spite of their distress, were 
hungry. The crew continued to row, but they 
made little headway, and it required all Mr. 
Richards’ skill tc manage the rudder. 

The heavy tarpaulin kept the girls from being 
drenched. The boys had their overcoats, and, in 
consequence, they did not suffer so much from 
the cold as they would otherwise have done. 
The evening wore on ; night came, and the storm 
began to abate. But it was hard to keep light- 
hearted and cheerful under such circumstances. 
Jimmy and Dick took their turn at the oars, 
which relieved the sailors a little. 

The rain lessened ; the wind grew less shrill ; 
the waves ceased to toss their snowy crest over 
the boat. The purser served some additional 
refreshments to the crew. But they all felt that, 
unless they should soon see land, there was an 
awful night before them. 


THE RISING OF THE MOON 


89 


I wish we could do something to cheer these 
poor fellows up,” the purser said to Jimmy 
Brogan. “ A fiddle would be a good thing ; but 
I don’t think Ole Bull himself could handle a 
bow in this sea.” 

“ I can sing a little,” said Jimmy. “ And Dick 
here has his mouth-organ with him, I know, be- 
cause he always carries it in his pocket.” 

“If you start something cheerful, boys, the 
crew will join in. They are very down-hearted, 
poor fellows! We must keep up their spirits — 
or they will be wanting to pour spirits down, — 
the worst way that was ever invented of making 
a man cheerful.” 

Dick, whose heart had been like lead, revived 
somewhat at the thought of his mouth-organ. 
He drew the precious instrument from the in- 
side pocket of his waistcoat and began to play 
“ Haney Lee.” Jimmy joined him, and the men 
gave a rattling chorus. The oars went faster 
than before, and, in spite of the gloom and cold, 
all hearts grew warmer. 

Even Elise, whose face had been buried in her 
hands under the tarpaulin, said : 

“ Dear me, I wish I had my music ! I’d like 


90 


ST. martin’s summer 


to show them what singing is. I don’t believe 
they ever heard the Kicci Waltz, with all the 
trills.” 

“ Nancy Lee ” was good enough for the sailors. 
They made the boys repeat it. And then they 
started a sea-song of their own — something about 
“ blowing a man down,” which nobody under- 
stood but themselves. The night wore on. The 
storm passed, and just as the moon rose from 
behind a dark mass of clouds which were 
like hills, Jimmy’s clear treble voice sang 
out : 


“Star of the Sea, when all was gloom, 

And high the waves around us rolled, 

We knew the flower of hope would bloom, 

And that our grief would be consoled ; — 

We knew thy light was only hid 

Behind the lowering banks of clouds, 

And at a time — when thou wouldst bid — 

The stars should shine through shattered shrouds. 


Star of the Sea, our thanks to thee, 

O Mother of the Deity ! ” 

And the sailors, knowing it was a hymn, joined 
in the chorus, which Jimmy repeated. And so 
the moon rose slowly over the silver sea, and 


THE RISING OF THE MOON 


91 


through the silence, broken only by the short, 
chopping sound of the oars in the rowlocks, the 
words rose sweetly and solemnly : 

“ star of the Sea', our thanks to thee, 

O Mother of the Deity ! ” 


92 


ST. martin’s summer 


XIY 

THE SETTING OF THE SUN 

The day broke at last. The first streak of 
dawn in the east showed them the vast sea in 
slow and measured motion. A faint streak of 
pink and then a deep bar of red appeared. And 
the young people, seeing the outburst of splendor 
that followed it, were awestruck. It was not 
bright or cheerful as on land. ISTo shrill crowing 
from neighbors’ barns announced the opening of 
a new day. There was no twittering of birds, 
no sound of footsteps hastening by ; there was 
no cheerful voice. There was silence. It was a 
solemn sight. 

Mr. Kichards was provided with an alcohol 
lamp and plenty of matches. He made the stern 
of the boat into a kitchen for a moment and 
served some good hot coffee. Luckily the weather 
was not cold, and, after his passengers and crew 
had drunk the coffee, the autumn sun shot down a 
shower of golden arrows, and the young people 
began to revive. 


THE SETTING OF THE SUN 93 

Dick, who had his hand over the side of the 
boat, suddenly pulled it up. 

“Look,” he whispered to Jimmy; “does this 
mean anything ? ” 

Jimmy looked and saw in Dick’s hand a plant 
with little green buttons on it. 

Jimmy’s eyes sparkled. “ It must mean land I 
Don’t you remember how Colombus saw green 
things in the ocean when his crew were almost 
in despair ? ” 

Dick said nothing, but put his hand into the 
sea again. Jimmy followed his example on his 
side of the boat. He was rewarded by having 
his hand struck by a large piece of bark. He 
passed it to Mr. Kichards. The purser examined 
it. His face flushed, but he controlled the ex- 
clamation that rose to his lips. 

. “ Don’t be too hopeful, boys. There’s no land 
yet in sight.” 

Mr. Kichards and one of the sailors were row- 
ing. Dick and Jimmy had just had their turn 
while two of the crew ate their breakfast, which 
consisted of dried beef, bread, and coffee, — all of 
much better quality than sailors usually get. 
Dick and Jimmy strained their eyes in the direc- 


94 


ST. martin’s summer 


tion of the western horizon. Elise Thorndyke, 
who had brought a paper-covered novel in her 
pocket, had forgotten real woes in the fictitious 
grief of some heroine or other. 

Alice had no such resource. She was engaged 
in the more salutary process of examining her 
conscience. How often she had been disobedient 
to Aunt Susan! How unkind she had been to 
Jimmy Brogan ! How careless of other people’s 
comfort 1 And now she was punished. She 
should never see her sister or Bob again ; never see 
Belinda, to whom she had written so seldom. 
Alice was very wretched. If it had not been for 
the little red rosary she held in her hands she 
would have been entirely without comfort. Eose 
was sound asleep, and Bernard was listening 
eagerly to one of the sailor’s yarns about his ad- 
ventures as a cabin-boy in the Mediterranean. 

Jimmy and Dick could hardly suppress their 
excitement. Did the plant mean anything? 
Was it a land plant, or only some marine plant 
of similar appearance ? Dick wished that he had 
studied botany at school ; in that case he might 
now be able to decide without doubt whether the 
floating plant meant land or not. Jimmy could 


THE SETTING OF THE SUN 95 

make nothing of the piece of bark, nor could 
Dick. Although they had lived in the country 
all their lives, they could not say whether it 
was oak, sycamore, chestnut, locust, or beech 
Dick began to understand that eyes mean a great 
deal, and that no eyes mean very little. He said 
to Jimmy that, if he ever touched land again, he 
would notice closely the little things around him. 
Jimmy had been more observant than Dick, but 
he too felt how little he had used his eyes. 

The day wore on. The boat happily had an 
awning, and at noonday it gave our boat-load 
much relief ; for the sun beat fiercely on the glit- 
tering surface of the sea. Mr. Eichards fever- 
ishly watched the western horizon. As yet no 
sign of land appeared. 

Jimmy and Dick had managed to pick up vari- 
ous bits of wood, and they had seen a dead pigeon 
borne past them. A large white bird swept by 
and was lost in the distance ahead. It was 
an albatross — a magnificent sea-bird, — the bird 
which is the centre of Coleridge’s weird poem, 
“ The Ancient Mariner.” In about an hour after 
they had seen it they came up to it. This time 
it was asleep on the heaving waters. It grace- 


96 


ST. martin’s summer 


fully rose and fell as the sea swelled and sub- 
sided. Its huge white wings were slightly 
spread ; its head was half buried in one of them ; 
and its downy back was tinged pink by the red 
glow of the sun, which by this time was declin- 
ing. It made an exquisite picture — so graceful, 
so soft, so faintly tinted with color, and so safe 
in the treacherous water. And then Mr. Eich- 
ards, losing for a moment his anxious look, re- 
cited in a low voice the “Eime of the Ancient 
Mariner,” showing how the sailor had suffered 
for killing one of those birds : 

“Oh, sleep ! It is a gentle thing, 

Beloved from pole to pole. 

To Mary, Queen, the praise be given; 

She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven 
That slid into my soul ! 

Just as he had reached this line, and even the 
sailors were listening attentively, he paused sud- 
denly, a strange look coming into his face. 

Jimmy followed his glance. The west was re- 
splendent. The sun, full and round, seemed to 
be upheld above a gorgeous figure attired in pur- 
ple, gold, amber, and roseate color, flecked by 
pale green and opal. 


THE SETTING OF THE SUN 97 

“ It is like a priest giving benediction ! ” cried 
Kose. And so it was. “ Ah, what a beautiful 
season. And this is S^t. Martin’s Summer.” 

But Mr. Richards was not looking at the sun- 
set. Relieved against a luminous cloud on the 
very brink of the ocean were strange outlines. 
He pointed to them. His overstrained nerves 
gave way ; he buried his face in his hands. 


98 


ST. martin’s summer 


XY 

AMONG THE BREAKERS 

The sun went down. The young people 
strained their eyes towards the west until the 
t wilight enveloped the sea. Every minute seemed 
an hour. The sailors bent to their oars. On the 
boat sped through the gathering darkness. The 
moon arose. And, after about three hours of 
silence, hope, fear, and suspense, they entered the 
white-capped breakers which showed that they 
were near the land. Mr. Kichards, having care- 
fully taken observations with his glass, had an- 
nounced that they were nearing an island. The 
foam-capped waves stretched in a semicircle as 
far as the eye could see in the moonlight. 

The roar of the breakers sounded louder and 
louder. They fell one upon the other, filling the 
air with spray, for what seemed the space of a 
mile. This evidently gave Mr. Kichards some 
anxiety ; he consulted with the sailors in a low 
tone. 


AMONG THE BREAKERS 


99 


The young people said very little. They could 
only watch the stretch of high banks which was 
revealed now and then as the breakers occasion- 
ally subsided. The sailors, as the boat ap- 
proached the first of the circle of foam-plumed 
waves lay on their oars for a moment, in obe- 
dience to an orfier from Mr. Eichards, who also 
told Dick and Jimmy to draw the tarpaulin care- 
fully over their party. 

Dick objected. “We don’t mind a wetting, 
sir,” he said. 

“You may have to go through more than a 
wetting, my boys, so you’d better get under 
cover.” 

As he said this he drew from under the stern 
seat some life-preservers, and showed the young 
people how to put them on. Elise began to cry 
as soon as she saw them. She declared that “ she 
knew she’d be drowned, — she was sure that they’d 
never touch land again.” Alice caught the infec- 
tion and began to weep, too ; and Alfred wiped 
the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. 
Dick, looking at the towering breakers, also lost 
courage, but said nothing. Jimmy busied him- 
self in fastening life-preservers under Bernard’s 
LcfO. 


100 


ST. martin’s summer 


and Kose’s arms. Eose was so much amused 
by her appearance in a life-preserver that she 
laughed out loud. Bernard followed suit, and 
Jimmy took care to say all the funny things he 
could think of, though his heart was not very 
light. 

The amusement of Bernard and Eose did not 
last long. The boat entered the breakers. The 
waves beat heavily against it, giving quick 
shocks, which made it tremble from stem to stern. 
One moment it was raised high in the air, in 
another it was dropped heavily as from a hill into 
a valley. Sometimes it seemed suspended be- 
tween the sea and the sky, and then entirely cov- 
ered by the waves. But the worst was to come. 
Hitherto the boat had not filled with water. Mr. 
Eichards had managed his helm so well that the 
bow had pierced the breakers ; but as they neared 
the shore a huge wave struck the boat on the 
port side.* It reeled, half turned over, and righted 
itself, half filled with water. Elise and Alice 
screamed; Jimmy took fast hold of Eose, who 
was nearest him, and threw off the tarpaulin. 
The night was clear ; the moon made the crests 
of the breakers seem like huge masses of pearls 


AMONG THE BEEAKERS 


101 


and diamonds. Jimmy wondered that things so 
beautiful could be so dangerous. 

The boat, half filled with water, had lost its 
buoyancy ; it seemed incapable of resisting the 
force of the breakers. Everybody was wet 
through. Mr. Eichards ordered two of the sail- 
ors to bale out the boat. Jimmy, Dick and 
Bernard were given empty cans with which to 
assist in the work. They were glad to have 
something to do. 

The condition of the girls was pitiable. Elise 
and Alice made no attempt to be cheerful. They 
wept and wailed. Fortunately, everybody else 
was too busy to pay much attention to their out- 
cries. 

Mr. Eichards kept the boat well “ stern on ” to 
the sea. He knew that if a breaker should strike 
her broadside or quarter, she would capsize. He 
had had some experience among the heavy comb- 
ers on the coast of the Sandwich Islands. He 
hoped that he might be able to ride one of the 
huge waves without risk, for the oars were be- 
coming useless. All depended now on the skill 
of the man at the helm. 

Jimmy was nearest to Mr. Eichards ; he 


102 


ST. martin’s summer 


watched him with interest and anxiety. They 
were now about two hundred yards from the 
shore. The breakers followed one another more 
rapidly. They struck the boat in quick succes- 
sion, but, thanks to Mr. Eichards’ skill, always 
on the stern. Some were stronger than others. 
Jimmy tried to discover whether there was any 
rule governing their strength. He came to the 
conclusion that one heavy wave was, as a rule, 
followed by two lighter ones. A great comber 
rolled over them, making the girls speechless with 
fear. Jimmy, according to his calculations, ex- 
pected a respite. But it was followed by a 
breaker of tremendous strength. When it had 
passed, Mr. Eichards had dropped the tiller. He 
tried to lift his right hand, but dropped it, utter- 
ing a groan. The breaker had dashed his arm 
against the stern and disabled it. He was pale 
as death. Another breaker was approaching. 
Jimmy saw the danger and so did Dick. The 
latter was the quicker. He sprang to the helm, 
and kept the boat heading straight to the beach, 
with the breaker well at its stern. Mr. Eichards 
shouted : “ Well done ! ” 

The dash and crash of the breakers on the 


AMONG THE BKEAKERS 


103 


beach made aa appalling din. Dick kept his 
place at the helm. There was no time to change 
now. 

But Elise, accustomed to her own way, and 
having never practised self-control, cried out that 
she would not trust her life in Dick’s hands, — 
somebody else must take the helm. Before any- 
body could prevent her she stood up. Bernard 
and Kose tried to pull her back to her seat. 
“ No,” she protested ; “ she could not sit still and 
see them all wrecked.” 

One of the sailors made a movement to stop 
her silly and selfish action, when another breaker 
dashed over them. And when it had gone Elise 
was not in her place. 

Jimmy could swim. He had a clear conscience, 
and he did not hesitate a moment. He stood up, 
waved his hands towards Dick, and plunged in 
after her. Dick lost control of the helm. A 
breaker struck the boat full on its side. In a 
minute it was submerged. It did not right itself 
again. It appeared, keel-upward, when the 
breaker had passed, and was dashed, empty, like 
a picked nutshell, on the beach. 


104 


ST. martin’s summer 


XVI 

THE GROUP ON THE BEACH 

Jimmy’s plunge into the sea half blinded him. 
He was tossed about in noise and darkness for a 
short time. Then he felt something in his grasp. 
It was one of the oars. How he caught hold of 
it he could not tell, but he held it firm. He rose 
to the surface in a valley made by two breakers. 
One of them tossed him up on its crest. He saw 
for an instant Elise’s face, very white in the 
moonlight, floating in the water. He seized her 
by the arm. 

‘‘ Don’t be afraid,” he said. I ” 

A huge breaker swept her away from him to- 
wards the beach. Just then he heard a faint cry. 
He saw Dick, with one arm around Kose, doing 
his best to struggle with the breakers. He thrust 
the oar towards Dick, who managed to grasp it, 
and, throwing himself on the next in-going 
breaker, was carried to the beach. 

How Dick regretted that he had never learned 


THE GROUP ON THE BEACH 


105 


to swim, as he felt himself going under, with 
poor Kose clinging to him ! Jimmy’s oar was a 
godsend. It saved their lives. The breakers 
threw them, stunned and bruised, on the sand. 

But where was Alice, where was Bernard, 
where was Alfred, where was Mr. Kichards, 
where were the sailors ? 

These questions filled Jimmy’s mind to the ex- 
clusion of all other things. He cast his eyes 
anxiously over the foam that boiled around the 
spot of sand on which he stood. His vigilance 
was rewarded. He saw Alice and Bernard cling- 
ing to another oar. Alice seemed exhausted. 
He plunged into the surf again. It had no ter- 
rors for him when there was no one dependent 
on him. He had always been what his mother 
called a “ water-dog ” ; he rather enjoyed the 
lashing and whirling of the breakers. With his 
assistance the drenched cousins were brought 
safely to shore, and then he caught Alfred’s hand 
just as he was going out of sight. 

He saw Mr. Kichards nowhere, nor was there 
any sign of the sailors. With a sigh, Jimmy 
turned to the group on the beach. They were 
wretched enough. Fortunately the night was 


106 


STr martin’s summer 


warm, but they were wet through and through, 
and the girls wept and shivered. Dick seemed 
utterly helpless, and Bernard could only groan 
and wish he were home. They sat huddled to- 
gether in a group just out of reach of the waves. 
Jimmy tried in vain to arouse Dick, who seemed 
entirely crushed. 

Jimmy himself felt a sense of helplessness 
creeping over him. What could he do ? But he 
had been accustomed to think both for himseC 
and his mother, while these other young people 
had always had somebody to think for them. 
He made his prayer to Our Lady of Good Coun- 
sel and looked around. 

A narrow platform of sand was bordered by a 
wall of dark rock. In one place there was an 
opening in the rock, through which Jimmy saw 
the tracery of trees — waving boughs and shadows 
being mingled in the moonlight. This was all he 
could see. 

The condition of the miserable group before 
him suggested a fire. How was a fire to be 
made ? There were trees, no doubt ; but how 
could they be utilized for fire-wood ? He felt 
eagerly in his waistcoat pocket, and drew out a 


THE GROUP ON THE BEACH 107 

match-case. He touched the spring. It flew 
open. In it lay about twenty-five matches. 
Were they wet or dry? This was a most im- 
portant question. His heart leaped with joy 
when he found that the inside of the tightly 
closed match-box was as dry as a chip. 

“ Come, Dick,” he said ; “ we must do some- 
thing. Let’s go look for some wood.” 

The girls cried out that they would not be left 
alone. 

“It’s not so bad,” Jimmy continued, making a 
faint attempt to laugh. “ Kobinson Crusoe came 
out all right.” 

“ Heartless creature ! ” exclaimed Elise. 

Alfred stood up. “I’ll go, Jimmy,” he said ; 
“ anything would be better than shivering here.” 

Elise protested, but Bernard was firm. 

“ Let them go,” Alice said ; “ they may find 
poor, dear Mr. Eichards.” 

“ Much good Mr. Eichards will do us now I ” 
muttered Elise. 

“ I was not thinking of us ! ” returned Alice, 
with more spirit than usual. “ I was thinking of 
how sad it will be if we do not see Mr. Eichards 
alive again.” 


108 


ST. maktin’s summer 


“/ am freezing to death, and I have no time 
to think of other people,” Elise answered. 

Eose volunteered to go with Jimmy, who, 
armed with his opened pocket-knife, entered the 
cleft in the rock. He found himself in a grove 
of low trees and underbrush. The moonlight 
showed him numbers of slight, waving trees of 
the palm species. In the few open spaces the 
ground was thickly covered with dry leaves. 
Armed with a sharp axe, Jimmy could have cut 
as much fire-wood as he needed. He had no axe. 
The air was much warmer behind the wall of 
rock. But he knew very well that the girls 
would be afraid of snakes and wild animals, and 
never dare to leave their present place on the 
beach. 

Jimmy was not discouraged. He had never 
faced such a seemingly hopeless task before. 
But he believed that there ought always to be 
hope. There is always an opening somewhere in 
the seemingly impenetrable wall. All is dark, 
but suddenly God sends up a little star out of the 
gloomiest part of the sky. The man with the 
most hope is the man that wins the battle. In 
this case, however, hope seemed useless. Here 


THE GROUP ON THE BEACH 


109 


were trees, but no axe. Half an ocean stretched 
between him and an axe. 

Alfred had cautiously followed him, and, to 
get a better view, he stood on a mound of with- 
ered leaves. It gave way beneath him. Jimmy 
stooped to pick him up. His hand struck against 
something hard under the leaves ; it was part of 
the trunk of a fallen tree. It was light, fibrous ; 
it seemed cork-like. 

Give a hand, Alf ! ” he cried. 

In a few minutes the long log had been carried 
down to the beach. Jimmy, accompanied by 
Dick and Bernard, went back to look for more 
logs. They found plenty of half-rotten boughs. 
These they piled under the log. They made a 
semicircle of combustibles. Then Jimmy gravely 
drew out a precious match and lit the fire. The 
mass was easily ignited. A yellow flame shot up 
at once, followed by little explosions and spurts 
of green and red fire, showing the presence of 
gas in the wood. The log had no doubt lain on 
the ground for a long time. 

The grateful warmth crept into the blood of 
the young people. They were homeless; the 
morrow might bring troops of animals or savages 


110 


ST. maetin’s summer 


upon them ; they did not know where they were ; 
but they were grateful — even Elise — for the brief 
space of comfort which the fire gave. 

All outside the fire was in the densest gloom. 
From out this gloom sounded a voice — “ Can you 
help a stranger ? ” It was Mr. Kichards’ voice. 
He seemed to be in pain. 

Jimmy and Dick rushed out and dragged him 
— ^for he was creeping on the ground — into the 
warm, bright circle. 


THROUGH THE LONG NIGHT 


111 






XYII 

“through the long night” 

The boys rushed to Mr. Kichards, dragging 
him into the warmest place in the circle. He 
looked around gratefully, closed his eyes for a 
moment as if to rest, and then spoke. 

“ I never expected to see you again,” he said. 
“ My disabled arm left me entirely at the mercy 
of the waves after the boat upset. I was tossed 
and battered among them until I think I must 
have fainted. I don’t know how long I lay on 
the sand, half conscious, suffering, cold, wet, 
when suddenly I saw the light of your fire, and 
I crawled towards it. You can imagine how 
glad I am to find you.” 

“ And how glad we are ! ” cried Dick. 

“ But the sailors ! — poor fellows ! ” 

He said no more. They all understood what 
he meant. 

Dick, Jimmy, Alice, Bernard, and Rose felt 
almost cheerful, — the coming of Mr. Richards 


112 


ST. martin’s summer 


seemed to mean that they were not utterly de- 
serted, after all. But Elise crouched near the 
fire, with her head buried in her arms, sobbing 
at intervals. Alfred found her example infec- 
tious. He turned away from Mr. Kichards 
gloomily. 

It soon became plain that Mr. Richards was 
suffering. His usually ruddy face was pale as 
death. His hair and long beard, dripping with 
water, added to the wretchedness of his appear- 
ance. He breathed heavily. 

Alice watched him anxiously. She had often 
imagined herself in some similar position. She 
had, after reading a novel, imagined herself min- 
istering to the sick, of course with the approba- 
tion of a number of admiring people. She had 
fancied herself in a great battle; she had skil- 
fully bound up the wounds of dying soldiers, and 
had saved many lives by her heroic and skilful 
treatment. But, although she saw that Mr. Rich- 
ards was suffering from his injured arm, she felt 
herself powerless to help him. How she wished 
that, instead of novel-reading and dreaming, she 
had learned to be useful ! 

But Elise, the strong, the heroine of a hundred 


“through the long night’* 113 

imaginary adventures! — surely she could help 
Mr. Richards. She went to Elise and whispered 
to her. 

“ I don’t care ! ” said Elise. “ I have too much 
to think of to bother myself about anybody just 
now. My sealskin sack is gone ” 

“ A mermaid is probably wearing it now,” put 
in Dick, maliciously. 

“Everything I cared for is gone! We shall 
never get home — never ! Let Mr. Richards take 
care of himself. Where’s your Jimmy Brogan? 
Can’t he make himself useful ? ” 

Jimmy overheard her ; he did not quite under- 
stand. Alice turned to him in shame and dis- 
tress. 

“ O Jimmy ! ” she said, “ don’t you see how 
Mr. Richards is suffering? And I can’t help 
him ; I don’t know how.” 

Jimmy approached Mr. Richards, and asked 
permission to look at his arm. Mr. Richards 
smiled, but let Jimmy cut away his sleeve with 
a penknife. 

“ I don’t think you can do me much good, my 
boy,” he said ; “ but you cannot make me suffer 
mlich more than I am suffering now.” 


114 


ST. martin’s summer 


Jimmy carefully examined the arm. It was 
broken just below the elbow. The fire was 
burning brightly, with a steady glow. Jimmy 
hesitated ; finally he said : 

“ I can set this arm, Mr. Kichards, I think, if 
you will let me. My arm was broken once. 
Buttercup — one of our cows — kicked me. I 
watched the doctor. And, oh, how it hurt ! If 
you don’t mind letting me try ” 

“ Try by all means,” said Mr. Kichards, with 
a groan. “It seems to me as if my legs were 
broken too, they are so bruised and battered.” 

Jimmy looked for two flat pieces of wood. 
With Dick’s help he found two shingle-like 
pieces. Then he asked for some strong muslin 
or linen. Alice had some in her satchel, which 
had been strapped tightly around her waist when 
she entered the boat. 

When Dick saw how deftly Jimmy set about 
making his arrangements he envied him. He 
felt helpless beside him. He knew that he could 
read a little in his Latin books, and Jimmy could 
not. He had gone to dancing-school ; he had 
more refined manners than Jimmy. People in 
Thornydale had always been very polite to Dick 


“through the long night” 115 

Watson; but they had said “only Jimmy Bro- 
gan I ” Dick and Alice had been invited to all 
the young folks’ parties, but nobody except 
Father Keardon had taken any interest in 
Jimmy. But here was Jimmy able to do things 
which Dick felt he ought to be able to do. Why 
was it he was not ? 

He asked Alice this question in an undertone. 
Alice could not answer it. 

“I know! ’’said Bernard. “You have never 
watched anything to see how it is done ; Jimmy 
has. He has used his head and his eyes, and 
you haven’t.” 

Dick admitted that there might be something 
in this ; but he said to himself that the principal 
reason was that he had failed to learn the chief 
lesson of education, which is how to help others 
— how to be unselfish. He and Alice and Elise 
and Alfred had been so intent on their own 
amusements that they had given no thought to 
what did not immediately concern themselves. 

Dick forgot his regrets in the necessity of help- 
ing Jimmy. Under Jimmy’s directions, he as- 
sisted him in suddenly pulling Mr. Kichards’ arm 
to its full length. Mr. Richards shut his teeth 


116 


ST. martin’s summer 


tight, but manfully bore the ordeal with an ex- 
pression of agony on his face. A sharp, snap- 
ping noise assured Jimmy that the bone had 
closed together; he hastened at once to apply 
the rough splints and to bind them tightly — the 
arm between them — with the linen bands which 
Alice had industriously made at his request. 

Mr. Eichards was much relieved. He warmly 
thanked Jimmy. It gave him new strength to 
know that his arm was not useless for life. He 
fell asleep. Alice, Eose, and Bernard followed 
his example. Alfred and the other two big boys 
took turns through the night in keeping up the 
fire. 

Dick kept himself awake during his watch by 
softly whistling the old Welsh air, Ayr Ilyd y 
Nos — ‘‘ Through the Long Night.” He had heard 
it somewhere, and it seemed very appropriate. 
Jimmy said his rosary, and Alfred cried silently 
at intervals. Elise lay crouched in the corner. 
The only sound heard was the constant fall of 
the waves on the beach. What would the morn- 
ing bring? Were they to starve on this strip of 
sand and rock ? 

These questions, running through Dick’s mind. 


“thkougit the long night” 117 

almost maddened him. Oh, for the light ! Oh, 
for the morning! And then, to save himself 
from thinking, he began to whistle, Ayr Ilyd y^ 
— “Through the long night, through the 
long night.” 

The dreary melody oppressed him. He began 
the “ Dixie Belle.” But that tune disturbed the 
sleepers. 

“ Oh, Dick,” said Jimmy, “ tell us a story. 
You remember you told us about the stories your 
uncle and mother told you once,— stories about 
themselves when they were young. You tell us 
a story about yourself.” 

“ It might make us forget ! ” said Alfred. 
“ Oh, I want to forget ! ” 

Kichard was silent. He did not feel like talk- 
ing, and story-telling under these dreary condi- 
tions did not appeal to him. 

“ If I knew where the manuscript is, and we 
had enough light, I’d read Uncle Will’s play for 
you, — but it’s terribly gloomy.” 

“Do think of something,” urged Jimmy. 
“Do! I can’t live through the night. Tell 
us about two boys, Dick and Jimmy, — and 
make me the villain ! ” 


118 


ST. martin’s summer 


Eicbard laughed. 

“ All right ! ” he said. “ Here goes ! Mj story 
is half truth and half fiction, — but it’s about 
boys.” And he began in a low tone ; 

His name was Bolton — Kichard J. Bolton ; and 
he was very fond of the “ J, ” because it stood 
for his Confirmation name — Joseph. 

He got on very well at school, but he was 
sometimes in trouble, and one of his principal 
temptations was to write “ Bichard J. Bolton ” 
over the pages of his copy-book, instead of 
“ Honesty is the best policy,” “ Evil communica- 
tions corrupt good manners,” and other favorite 
maxims. He sometimes had “bad marks” for 
coming to school with a black eye, or his nose 
slightly bruised, or his jacket torn. It was very 
well known that if Bichard could keep out of 
“ rows,” and cease to scribble his name on copy- 
books, fences, and to cut it on desks and trees, he 
would have been a model boy. 

He was not a model boy, however. It must 
be said that he never punched a little boy, or cut 
his name too deep in any tree, after he killed one 
of Farmer Osmond’s favorite peach-trees by dig- 
ging his initials far into its heart. This is all I 


“through the long night” 119 

can say for him, and I am very sorry. I should 
-like to tell about a model boy, but I have 
never met one. I have read of them in nice 
little notices in the newspapers — after they were 
dead ; but I have never met one. Perhaps they 
are all dead. 

When Eichard Bolton went to Father Harnett 
to confession he always was heartily sorry for 
his sins. Father Harnett had once told him ho 
ought to stop fighting — that is, fighting when 
there was no occasion to defend himself or others. 

“But I never tackle a fellow that’s not my 
size,” said Eichard, in an injured tone. 

“But you do ‘tackle a fellow’ because you 
want to hurt him,” said Father Harnett. 

“ Oh, yes,” said Eichard, “ of course I want to 
hurt him. When I hit I want to hurt. I guess 
you’d want to hurt a fellow if he made faces at 
you, or made fun of the boys in your crowd.” 

Eichard looked at the priest very kindly 
and frankly, as if expecting perfect sympathy. 
Father Harnett shook his head gravely. “Do 
you think it was a good thing to hurt Jimmy 
Driscoll so badly that he could not go to school 
for nearly a week ? ” 


120 


ST. martin’s summer 


“ I didn’t do that,” said Kichard eagerly ; ‘‘ no, 
I didn’t do that. Jimmy Driscoll got on our see- 
saw in the lumber-yard, and dared our crowd to 
touch him ; and I just pushed up the other end 
of the board he was seesawing on, and he fell off 
himself.” 

“You must stop fighting. It’s a sin. You 
must not strike anybody unless in self-defense.” 

“ There won’t be much fun, then,” said Kichard, 
sadly. “ I didn’t know that goodness took all the 
fun out of life.” 

“ It does not,” said Father Harnett. “ You can 
be very good, and very jolly too.” 

“I know that,” said Richard; “you’re good, 
and jolly too. But, then, you’re a priest. Peo- 
ple don’t make faces at you, and dare you to do 
things. But, father, suppose I exaggerated — I 
mean aggravated — a boy so bad that he’d punch 
me ; do you think it would be a sin for me to 
punch him ? ” 

Richard’s face brightened expectantly. 

“ Certainly.” 

The boy sighed. 

“ You’ll have to give up fighting, Dick.” 

“ If I must, I must^'* answered Richard. 


‘‘theough the long night” 121 

“You must promise me that you will.” 

“But if I make a promise I’ll have to keep it.” 

“ Of course.” 

“ Give me until to-morrow, father ; and then, 
if I can. I’ll promise.” 

After some hesitation, Father Harnett gave 
him what he asked. 

“ Curious hoy ! ” said Father Harnett, return- 
ing to his breviary. “ There’s a great deal of 
good in him. It’s’ a pity that he has not more 
reverence, and less what the people here call ‘ in- 
dependence.’ ” 

Father Harnett had come from Ireland, where 
the boys are more respectful in manner and more 
obedient than our boys generally are. He liked 
the American boys ; he was very kind to them ; 
but he shook his head whenever he saw an 
American parent encouraging independence. He 
thought that Kichard Bolton’s frankness was a 
good thing ; he knew that there was nothing 
mean about the boy — that he would not tell a lie 
or break a promise. But Kichard’s defiance of 
law and order, whenever Kichard wanted to 
defy law and order, filled Father Harnett with 
anxiety. 


122 


ST. maktin’s summer 


When Kichard left Father Harnett, he did not 
run into the wood for chestnuts, as otherwise he 
probably would have done, as it was Saturday 
and a holiday ; but he went out of the village, 
with a determined look on his face, towards 
Farmer Driscoll’s place. 

Kichard’s eyes and lips both expressed deter- 
mination. His lips were closed tight, his eyes 
looked neither to the right nor to the left. I 
suppose you think he was a handsome boy, like 
the boys you read about in some of the story- 
books, whose stalwart forms, dark, flashing eyes, 
and curling hair strike terror into Indians, polar 
bears, and whole menageries. He was a stumpy 
boy, with straight red hair that would not 
“comb,” a snub nose, and hands that seemed 
made for work. They were big, freckled, hon- 
est-looking hands. They were in his pockets 
just now. He had dug out fifteen cents from 
under the numerous articles of ornament and use 
he carried in his pockets. 

His boots — very much wrinkled as to the 
uppers, and run down as to the heels — crushed 
the clay beneath in what he called “ double- 
quick time.” He soon reached Driscoll’s farm. 


“theough the long night ” 123 

Jimmy Driscoll — a tall lad, with plenty of 
freckles, and a frank and wide smile — was in the 
act of driving the cows into a field. When he 
saw Kichard, he hid behind the tallest cow. 
Kichard slowly climbed on a fence, and looked 
down at him. 

“ Don’t be afraid,” said Eichard, somewhat 
surprised at Jimmy’s attitude; for Jimmy was 
noted for the weight of his fist, and his readiness 
to use it. I’m not going to tackle you.” 

“ I’m not afraid, Dick,” answered Jimmy ; 
‘‘ and if it wasn’t for Father Harnett, I’d make 
you feel I wasn’t afraid. You know very well 
that Father Harnett said that if I keep out of 
trouble I can go to confession next week. It’s 
mean to come aggravating a fellow when you 
know he has to be good.” 

This appeal went to Eichard’s heart. 

“ I don’t want to exaggerate you, Jim ; I’ll — 
cross — my — breath — and — I’ll — never — tell — a — 
lie, I don’t ! ” 

Convinced by the solemnity of this assurance, 
Jimmy came out from behind the cow. 

“ Father Harnett talks about fighting the 
devil,” he said, driving the cows into the field 


124 


ST. martin’s summer 


and putting up the bars ; “ I wouldn’t mind 
fighting him, if I could see him ; but I don’t like 
this fighting in the dark. It’s harder to fight 
against sin than to fight any fellow in your 
crowd.” 

Eichard laughed scornfully. 

“ I don’t know about that. I’m a pretty hard 
chap to manage. You may talk about sin, but 
I’m tougher than sin, and I want you to remem- 
ber it.” 

Jimmy tore off his coat and pranced towards 
Eichard. Eichard descended from the fence, 
and spat on his hands. Suddenly Jimmy let his 
hands fall at his sides. He muttered something 
to himself. 

‘‘Sin was just going to get his inijings,” said 
Jimmy; “I was getting very mad, and when I 
get mad, anybody near me had better run.” 

“ Do you mean that ? ” answered Eichard, spit- 
ting on his hands again. “ Because if you do, 
3"ou’ll soon see stars. Ho fellow of your crowd 
can talk that way to me and live.” 

Jimmy Driscoll uttered a whoop, and hopped 
three times. He felt now that he could have a 
fight without doing any wrong. Here was a boy 


“ THROUGH THE LONG NIGHT ” 125 

about to attack him ; it was his duty to defend 
himself. He “squared off” with dignity, as if he 
would say, with Koderick Dhu : 

“ Come one, come all ! 

This rock shall fly 
From its firm base 
As soon as I ! ” 

But Kichard suddenly threw himself down in 
the dried grass. 

“ It’s no use, Jimmy, I can’t tackle you ; so 
there’s no use in aggravating me. I would if I 
could. It isn’t meanness that keeps me quiet, 
Jimmy ; you know ihatP 

“ Oh, yes ! ” said Jimmy, “ I know how it is.” 

“ Well, I have come to make a bargain. You 
know you’re a very ex-aggravating chap ? ” 

“ Yes I am,” said Jimmy, with modest pride. 

“ I think you could make a brass monkey mad, 
if you tried.” 

“ Ho, no ! ” interrupted Jimmy, feeling that this 
was too much of a compliment. 

“Yes, you could,” pursued Kichard, dangling 
his feet earnestly. “ How, I want to try whether 
I can keep from fighting. You see. Father Har- 
nett will not let me go to the excursion with you 


126 


ST. martin’s summer 


fellows until I promise him not to fight. I can’t 
promise until I am sure of keeping my word.” 

‘‘It will be hard,” said Jimmy. “I say an 
‘ Our Father ’ or a ‘ Hail Mary ’ when I feel my- 
self getting mad. That generally stops me.” 

“ I don’t know how it would work with me,” 
said Kichard, gloomily. “I’m afraid I’m not 
good enough for that.” 

“ Oh, go away ! ” said Jimmy, consolingly. 

“I want to know how much you’ll take to 
tantalize me all the afternoon ? ” 

“ In fun, you mean ? ” 

“Well, I want you to try to make me fight 
with you. If you can’t do it nobody can, and 
so I can promise Father Harnett that I’ll never 
fight again. You’ve more nasty ways of ‘riling’ 
a chap than anybody I know. If you come out 
all right I’ll not be afraid of anybody.” 

“I don’t see the right way to go about it, 
somehow, Dick. I think you’d better keep away 
from fellows that make you mad. You know 
Father Harnett says that the best way to keep 
out of danger is not to go into temptation.” 

“ He doesn’t know anything ! — he’s not a 
boy I ” 


“through the long night” 127 

“ But he was a boy, and he knows more about 
everything than any man in these parts.” 

“ More than my father ? ” said Kichard, look- 
ing at Jimmy, and spitting on his hands. “Just 
you say that again ! ” 

“ More than any man in these parts,” repeated 
Jimmy, dodging behind the elm-tree. “But I’m 
not going to fight.” 

“Oh, I forgot!” said Kichard; “but you’d 
make a saint mad. Will you take fifteen cents 
to be as mean as you can to me all the after- 
noon? Just provoke me as you did now every 
time you get a chance.” 

“ It wouldn’t be right,” answered Jimmy, 
promptly. “ I’d like to take the job : it would 
be just nuts to me; but Father Harnett might 
say it was being ac-ac-accessory to another’s sin. 
That’s in the Catechism, you know.” 

“ Just as I expected ! ” said Kichard, gloomily ; 
“ the Catechism comes in and stops a fellow 
before he reaches first base. I suppose I’ll have 
to put that fifteen cents into the box with my 
other circus money.” 

Jimmy’s eyes sparkled. 

“ I don’t mind trying you a little, and stopping 


128 


ST. MAETIN'S SUMMER 


when I see you are getting too mad. Fifteen 
cents’ worth of aggravation couldn’t be much, 
you know. To be really aggravating, I’d have 
to have at least half a dollar — if it wasn’t wrong. 
There’d be a great deal of strain.” 

“ Besides the risk.” 

“ I wouldn’t mind that ! ” said Jimmy, con- 
temptuously. 

‘‘You wouldn’t?” asked Kichard, spitting on 
his hands and beginning to prance. 

“ I will not fight ! ” said Jimmy ; “it’s no use.” 

“Well, you’ll aggravate me as much as you 
think you can for fifteen cents ? ” 

“ All right. Cash ! ” 

The fifteen cents changed hands. Kichard felt 
that he had made a good bargain. He felt sure 
that Jimmy would become so much interested 
in his congenial task, that he would get more 
“ aggravation ” than he bargained for. 

Having made this strange arrangement, Kich- 
ard went whistling across the fields. He had 
some messages to carry for his father. His 
errands done, he would meet Jimmy in the 
wood, and look for chestnuts. Then the “aggra- 
vation ” was to begin. 


EICHAED AND RICHAED 


129 


XYIII 

EICHAED AND EICHAED 

Elise awoke, and listened. Kichard Watson 
continued : — 

Kichard had no thought of depending on any- 
body but himself for strength to overcome his 
inclination to quarrel. He had not been long 
under Father Harnett’s instructions, and his par- 
ents were generally too busy to pay him much 
attention. There was no Catholic school, but 
the good priest held a Catechism class every 
morning after mass ; and Richard, who was very 
anxious for two things promised by Father Har- 
nett to the good boys of his little group, was a 
regular attendant. These things were permission 
to receive the Sacrament of Confirmation and to 
be one of the altar-boys. This latter meant a 
free pass to the annual excursion. 

Kichard had not a wholly spiritual motive in 
wishing to obtain these privileges. They were 
esteemed great honors by all the other boys, and 


130 


ST. martin’s summer 


that was a reason why he put high value on 
them, and why he was willing to work for 
them. 

Besides, he understood enough of his Cate- 
chism to know that Confirmation was a great 
Sacrament, and, mixed up with his wish to stand 
high in his class, and to get the prizes, there was 
really a desire to be good, and to grow better 
every day. Yet, as I said, he depended too 
much on himself. He recited his prayers every 
morning ; but, nevertheless, he felt that he could 
take care of himself. At night it was different : 
he was very much afraid sometimes ; and he said 
longer prayers than usual on windy nights, when 
the northern blasts rattled the window panes, and 
the old house rocked like a cradle. When it 
thundered, too, he often said an extra prayer. 
But against dangers whose threatening he could 
not see or hear, he believed that he was safe 
enough. 

He chuckled to himself, as he ran along, over 
the victory he was about to gain. The idea of 
Father Harnett’s thinking that he could not help 
fighting! He felt sure that even Jimmy Dris- 
coll, whom everybody admitted to be the most 


RICHARD AND RICHARD 131 

exasperating boy “ around,” could not make Kim 
fight when he did not want to. 

He delivered his messages, left a basket of 
eggs at the store, and dropped a letter at the 
post-ofiice. After that he was free to do as he 
pleased. The road was lonely : there were no 
boys either going or coming. They were all 
busy doing chores ” at that hour, and nothing 
happened to spoil the serenity of his tem- 
per. 

Jimmy Driscoll was standing at the farm-gate, 
grinning. Kichard said “ Hollo ! ” And Jimmy 
responded, “ Hollo ! ” 

“ Suppose we start ? ” said Kichard. 

“Yery well,” said Jimmy; “wait until I tell 
my mother.” 

Richard waited. Jimmy came back with a 
small package, tossing five cents carelessly in the 
air. 

“ You’ll lose that money,” said Richard. 

“Don’t care if I do,” answered Jimmy, with 
the air of a capitalist, jingling ten cents in his 
pocket. “ There’s more where that came from. 
And it was money easily earned.” 

“ If you get hurt before the day is past, young 


132 


ST. maetin’s summer 


man, I guess you will not think so,’’ muttered 
Eichard. 

‘‘Oh, I’ll not get hurt!” said Jimmy; “I’m 
not afraid ! ” 

“Jimmy Driscoll,” said Eichard, solemnly, “if 
I didn’t know you were trying to aggravate me, 
I’d punch your head.” 

“ Oh, no, you wouldn’t ! ” cried Jimmy, in a 
gleeful voice, “ because you know you’d have to 
tell Father Harnett that you had been fighting.” 

Jimmy danced before Eichard in a way that 
made the latter’s blood boil ; but he restrained 
himself. 

“Some day, Jimmy Driscoll,” he said, “I’ll 
make you pay for this. Some day when I want 
to be bad I’ll break your bones.” 

Jimmy danced even more gleefully, and waved 
the paper parcel in the air. 

“ You can’t ! ” he shrieked ; “ you can’t ! be- 
cause if you once begin to be good and stop fight- 
ing, you’ll have to continue. You don’t know 
how hard it is to be good ! ” 

“ I don’t ? ” demanded Eichard. 

“ No, you don’t,” said Jimmy ; “ because you 
have never tried.” 


RICHARD AND RICHARD 133 

Eichard clenched his fists. Then he remem- 
bered himself. 

“ I’m trying now,” he said ; “ but it isn’t so 
very hard to keep from getting mad at you. If 
I couldn’t be more aggravating than that, I 
wouldn’t take fifteen cents from a fellow.” 

Jimmy did not answer this. 

The bo3^s were entering the wood. It was a 
lovely day ; the sky was exquisitely blue, and the 
air crisp; but every now and then a blast of 
wind seemed to come from the eastern horizon, 
where the green of the earth and the blue of the 
sky mingled in a line. 

The clump of chestnut-trees to which the boys 
were bound was high and thick. The lower 
parts of the trees were protected by a belt of 
young cedars. The wind which swept over the 
topmost branches did not enter the clump it- 
self, but passed above, knocking down chestnuts 
with and without burrs. There had been several 
frosty nights, and the sight that met the boys 
was, as they said themselves, “good for sore 
eyes.” 

Lying in the damp moss that covered the roots, 
glowing here and there in the half-dried leaves, 


134r ST. martin’s summer 

were the reddish-brown nuts : some peeping from 
their green husks, others ready to be picked up at 
once. It was enough to calm the most violent 
boy’s breast. Richard and Jimmy unbuttoned 
their jackets, and drew out two salt-bags, which, 
according to the fashion in their crowd,” they 
had stowed away in that manner. They each 
looked thinner, and set to work. 

Richard and Jimmy were now as one boy. 
Discord seemed impossible. The bags were soon 
filled, and when Jimmy took two huge chunks of 
currant-cake from his mysterious package, they 
seemed more united than brothers. 

After the cake had disappeared, they resumed 
their task. Richard sat on a log and yawned. 

“ I should not get tired, if I were you,’' said 
Jimmy, S'weeping into his bag a few fat chestnuts 
which were on Richard’s side of an imaginary 
line they had drawn between them. 

“ Tired ? It would take a good deal more than 
this to make me tired.” 

“ Oh ! would it ? ” asked Jimmy, in a tone of 
polite unbelief, that made Richard’s blood begin 
to boil again. 

Richard picked up a few more chestnuts, and, 


RICHARD AND RICHARD 


135 


on Jimmy’s request, let him look into his 
bag. 

“You’ve got more than I have,” said Jimmy, 
^ with a twinkle in his eye. 

“ I should think so ! ” replied Eichard, compla- 
cently ; “ I’ve worked! ” 

“ More worms I mean,” grinned Jimmy, show- 
ing two or three chestnuts with holes in them. 
“ You’ll have a nice feast ! Do you like them 
rare or well done ? ” 

Eichard caught Jimmy by the arm. 

“ When do you intend to begin ? ” 

“ I have begun, don’t you see ? ” said Jimmy. 
“ You’re getting mad already.” 

“Do you think I’d get mad for this child’s 
play ? I paid for real ‘ aggravation,’ not for this 
sort of thing.” 

“I’ve just been as aggravating as I could,” 
said Jimmy, despondently. “ You’re very hard 
to please. I’ve made you mad enough al- 
ready.” 

“ Mad ? ” exclaimed Eichard, his eyes flashing. 
“You couldn’t make me mad with such non- 
sense.” 

“ I’ve been as tantalizing as I could be ; what 


136 


ST. maktin’s summer 


more can a fellow do ? You don’t know what 
‘aggravating’ is when you see it.” 

“ I don’t, don’t I ? ” sneered Kichard. “ Well, 
I know enough to see that you’re not earning 
your money.” 

“Now, look here,” said Jimmy, in an injured 
way, “ I don’t want to be aggravating : I’d much 
rather enjoy myself ; but I’m acting mean just to 
please you. If you don’t like it, you’ll have to 
make the best of it, that’s all. Come to think of 
it, I’m sure Father Harnett will say I’ve done 
wrong to make you so angry.” 

Eichard ran at Jimmy. Jimmy jumped aside, 
but fell over the log on which the boys had 
been sitting. Eichard was unable to stop him- 
self, and the log and he, rolling together against 
Jimmy, pushed his head into the embers of 
the fire. Jimmy roared for help, and Eichard 
pulled him from the ashes and half burnt-out 
embers. 

Jimmy put his hands over his eyes and howled 
dreadfully. There was a smell of burning cloth. 
Eichard hastily pinched out a little fiame which 
was eating into Jimmy’s sleeve. 

Jimmy continued to howl. He finally threw 


RICHARD AND RICHARD 137 

himself on his face, and kicked up his heels in 
such a manner as to terrify Eichard. 

“ Oh ! can’t you open your eyes ? ” he cried. 
“ Do, Jimmy ! open your eyes ! ” 

I shall never open them more on this earth,” 
said Jimmy, solemnly, between two howls. 

Eichard felt that now indeed his punishment 
had come upon him. How he hated the very 
idea of fighting I He looked at his fists in dis- 
gust. It was a nice thing for him to think of 
making his confession and receiving Confirma- 
tion, — a nice thing! Perhaps Father Harnett 
would even take away his Confirmation name 
which he had already begun to use in advance ! 
A nice thing altogether ! — and perhaps he had 
killed Jimmy Driscoll ! 

While Jimmy kicked and howled, Eichard said 
to himself that there was no use in trying to be 
good. Other fellows fought when they liked, 
and never got into a scrape like this ; but the 
moment he tried to be good, he must go and kill 
a boy ! 

Jimmy’s howls grew fainter. He pressed his 
hot face against the cool ground and moaned. 
This was awful to Eichard. 


138 


ST. maetin’s summer 


“Get up and hit me, Jimmy,’’ he said, implor- 
ingly. “ I’ll stand anything, only get up and let 
me see that you’re alive. Come, pitch into me ! ” 

“It’s against my principles,” he answered, 
faintly; and then he added, with pardonable 
pride: “Don’t you think I earned that fifteen 
cents ? ” 

“ You did, Jimmy ! you did ! ” responded Rich- 
ard, with feeling. “You couldn’t be more tan- 
talizing than you were — if — if you were worth 
your weight in gold.” 

Jimmy looked up and grinned triumphantly, 
although one eye was closed, and the lashes of 
the other burned to a crisp. 

“I’ll never fight again, Jimmy,” continued 
Richard. “ I promise Father Harnett that, if you 
will only get well.” 

“ I’ll try,” said Jimmy, getting up ; and then, 
victoriously, “Wasn’t I mean, though! I 
wouldn’t have been that mean in earnest for any 
money ! ” 


RICHARD CONTINUES HIS STORY 139 


XIX 

RICHARD CONTINUES HIS STORY 

The episode in the chestnut clump had serious 
results. Jimmy’s left eye was so much inflamed 
when he reached home, that he had to go to bed 
and have poultices applied to it. The next day 
it was much worse. 

Kichard went to Father Harnett and told the 
story. 

“ I thought I could promise to keep from fight- 
ing, father,” he said ; but I find I can’t.” 

“ Oh, yes, you can ! ” answered Father Har- 
nett, looking gravely at Eichard’s worried face. 
“ That is, I mean that you can with some help ; 
but you can’t without help. You thought that 
you could conquer yourself by your own strength, 
and you failed. You boldly rushed into danger 
which you ought to have avoided. You knew 
that it would be hard to resist Jimmy’s attempts 
to make you angry ; but you insisted that you 
were strong enough, without God’s help, to defy 


140 


ST. martin’s summer 


them. Suppose I should rush into the sea some 
night, trusting that the breakers, which have 
overwhelmed so many people, would not drown 
me; suppose I courted danger without reason, 
just out of bravado, because I was sure of my 
strength : would you think I should be saved ? ” 
Of course not.” 

“Well, you did a very similar thing yesterday 
afternoon.” 

Eichard hung his head. 

“ My dear boy, you can only resist temptation 
by trusting in God and distrusting yourself.” 

“ I think I can take care of myself, father ; if 
I felt I couldn’t, then I’d pray.” 

Father Harnett gazed in amazement at the 
pert but anxious little face before him. 

“ Take care of yourself ? ” he echoed. “ Well I 
well ! what are you boys coming to ? Did you 
ever see a young bird, utterly helpless, trying to 
fly and falling ?” 

“Many a time,” answered Eichard. 

“You are that young bird. You need the help 
of our dear Lord and His Holy Mother every 
day, every hour, every second.” 

“I will say my prayers more often,” said 


RICHARD CONTINUES HIS STORY 141 

Eichard, in a broken voice. “ I will pray hard 
for Jimmy to get well. I’ll keep away from the 
lots, for fear somebody may provoke me to fight. 
Yes, I will ! I suppose if Jimmy dies you’ll take 
away my Confirmation name ? ” 

“ What name did I say you might have ? ” 

‘‘ Don’t you remember, father ? ” asked 
Richard, in surprise. 

‘‘ No, I do not, there are so many of you.” 

“ Joseph, after St. Joseph.” 

“ No ; I will let you keep that name, whether 
the Bishop gives Confirmation here this year or 
next. But you must humbly ask the great St. 
Joseph to help you to fight your temptations. Is 
Jimmy Driscoll very sick ? ” 

“He will have to stay in the house for two 
weeks.” (Richard said this in a low voice. He 
could imagine nothing more irksome than to stay 
at home for two weeks.) “ And his eye is so bad 
that he cannot even read a book or look at 
pictures.” 

“ I suppose you are sorry ? ” 

“ Of course ! ” said Richard ; “ but I don’t see 
any use crying about it.” 

“ Nor do I. If I were as sorry as you seem to 


142 


ST. martin’s summer 


be, I should be anxious to do something more 
than cry.” 

“ Are you going to take my Confirmation name 
away from me ? ” asked Kichard, becoming un- 
easy by Father Harnett’s severe tone. 

“ Ho ; but I am not sure that you ought to be 
confirmed with the rest. You see, Kichard, 
when I let you go to confession, you will have to 
be really sorry for your sins — for having been 
angry, disobedient, disrespectful to your elders, 
for having injured others. But you must not 
only be sorry for having done these things, which 
God has forbidden you to do, but you must re- 
solve not to do them again.” 

“ What is ‘ resolve ’ ? ” demanded Kichard. 

“Kesolve?” Father Harnett thought for an 
instant. “ Why, it means that you must say to 
yourself : ‘ I will not do a sinful act again.’ ” 

Well, I will not hit Jimmy Driscoll again ; in- 
deed I will not ! ” 

“Very well; but when you go to confession 
you must intend to make reparation.” 

A puzzled look came over Kichard’s face. 

“ I don’t know how to make ihat^'' he said. “ I 
cai make good fishing tackle for Jimmy Driscoll, 


RICHARD CONTINUES HIS STORY 143 

or anybody else I’ve hurt, if it will do them any 
good ; but I can’t make that other thing.” 

“You can look in your father’s dictionary for 
the meaning of the word when you get home. 
It means, when I say it, that you must give back 
anything you have taken away, or make good 
anything you have broken.’’ 

“ But I can’t make Jimmy Driscoll’s eye well, 
can I, father ? ” 

“ You can help to ‘ repair ’ some of the mischief 
you have done. Mrs. Driscoll is a poor widow : 
she will have to get somebody to do ‘ chores ’ on 
the farm while Jimmy is sick. You have plenty 
of time before and after school, and on Satur- 
day.” 

“ But there’s a baseball match next Saturday 
— the Big Nine vs. the Squirming Eels. The 
Big Nine’s the champion ” 

‘‘ Poor Mrs. Driscoll ! ” said Father Harnett, 
with a sigh ; “ she shall have to take care of Jimmy 
all day. I wonder who will bring her water 
from the pump, and feed the cows, and look after 
the horse ? If Jimmy were only better ! I won- 
der who will help her ? ” 

Kichard’s face reddened. He twisted his cap 


144 


ST. maetin’s summer 


in his hands. A struggle was taking place 
within him. 

“ Don’t make any promise ! ” Father Harnett 
said, putting his hand on Richard’s shoulder; 
‘‘but go into the chapel and ask St. Joseph to 
help you make a sacrifice. You can’t do any- 
thing worth doing of yourself alone. If you had 
said a prayer or two, instead of trusting too 
much to yourself, you probably would not have 
struck Jimmy Driscoll. Ho — no — don’t promise 
me ! Go and ask St. Joseph for strength to take 
Jimmy’s place for a while.” 

Richard said good-bye, and went through a 
corridor that led to the sanctuary. He knelt in 
the darkened chapel before Our Lady’s altar, 
where there was a picture of the Holy Family, 
and begged St. Joseph to help him. He said ten 
“ Hail Marys,” too. 

But he found himself hoping that St. Joseph 
would find a way for him to get out of the hard 
work, or that at least the Saint might make Mrs. 
Driscoll say that she did not want anybody to 
do Jimmy’s work until after the great baseball 
match. Ho : it would be mean to try to get out 
of doing what he ought to do. And yet he 


EICHARD CONTINUES HIS STORY 145 

shuddered at the thought of two weeks’ work on 
the Driscoll farm. No play, no fun; lessons, 
work; work, lessons. Perhaps Jimm}?' was not 
so sick as people said. Anyhow, he’d just let 
Mrs. Driscoll do her best until after the baseball 
match. He looked and saw the Infant, the Holy 
Mother, and St. Joseph smiling at him out of the 
picture. How good they were to smile at such a 
lazy, bad boy ! He would try to please them, 
whether Father Harnett let him be confirmed 
and put him on the altar ” or not. He said ten 
“ Hail Marys ” again, arose, walked across the 
space in front of the high altar, where the red 
light burned before our Lord, and made his genu- 
flection. Then he went out, feeling better ; but 
still his heart sank every time he thought of the 
baseball match. 

He ran quickly towards the Driscoll farm, 
fearing that he might not be able to hold to his 
good resolve. Just at the turn — where the 
bridge crossed the road — he met Mrs. Driscoll. 

“ How is Jimmy ? ” he asked. 

Mrs. Driscoll carried a large basket. She 
lifted her black veil to look solemnly and re- 
proachfully at Kichard. 


146 


ST. martin’s summer 


“ Not dead yet,” she said, with dignity ; ‘‘ but 
it’s no thanks to you.” 

“ Oh, Mrs. Driscoll,” cried Kichard, I hope 
he’ll get well soon ! I’ve come to ask you to let 
me do his work until he gets better. Oh, I hope 
he will get well soon ! ” 

“I’ll go bail you do,” answered Mrs. Driscoll, 
nodding her head, grimly, “ if you have to do his 
work. I’ve no objection to your doing what you 
can. There’s enough to do, dear knows ! ” 

And she went on. 

Not dead yet ! Kichard’s heart thumped vio- 
lently as he ran towards the farm. If Jimmy 
should die! “I wiir never, never fight again, 
St. Joseph helping me ! ” he said over and over. 


A STORY ENDS 


147 


XX 

A STORY ENDS 

“Morning is coming,” said Jimmy Brogan. 

“ I’ll just have time to finish,” said the story- 
teller : — 

Kichard knew every acre of the Driscoll farm. 
He had played all over it ; but he had never 
worked, if he could help it. He went to the 
wood-shed. He intended to chop as much wood 
as possible before Mrs. Driscoll should come 
back. 

There was somebody whistling loudly in the 
wood-shed. A nice thing, Eichard thought, and 
Jimmy so sick ! Eichard’s fists doubled them- 
selves up. He remembered his resolve, and 
opened them. He pushed aside the door, and 
entered the shed. 

Could he believe his eyes, or was it Jimmy’s 
ghost, whistling “ The Wearing of the Green ” ? 

Jimmy Driscoll seemed to be greasing a saw 
with a large lump of fat. He looked like himself, 


148 


ST. maetin’s summer 


only there was a small piece of sticking plaster 
over one of his eyes. 

“ Oh, Dick ! ” cried Jimmy, in his natural 
voice, “ I was just thinking of you ! I’ve done 
all the afternoon’s ‘chores.’ Let’s go and get 
more chestnuts. And, Dick, Bob Jenkins gave 
me two tickets for the grand stand at the base- 
ball match, because he thought I was sick. And 
mother says I may go ; will you come ?” 

“ Do you feel better ? ” gasped Richard. 

“ Oh, jolly ! You didn’t hurt me much. Let 
us go to the woods. My aunt’s in the house, so 
she can mind it. Come ! ” 

Richard was greatly relieved. “ Anyhow,” he 
said to himself, “ St. Joseph knows I meant to 
work hard.” 

Father Harnett, too, gave him credit for 
his good intention ; for among the boys con- 
firmed was Richard, with his name written on 
a little card in Latin, “Richard Joseph Bol- 
ton.” 

“ Thank you ! ” Jimmy Brogan said. “ How 
well you told that story, Dick. One would 
think you had rehearsed it.” 

“I did write it out once,” Dick answered. 


A STORY ENDS 


149 


“ and I tried to tell it elegantly, — without slang, 
— from a grown-up person’s point of view.” 

“ It made me forget ; but Bernard is still fast 
asleep.” 

“It almost made me forget!” said Elise. 
Then, she remembered, and began to cry. This 
made Dick and Jimmy feel utterly miserable. 

At last a pale light shone over the sea. It 
became a burning red streak ; and then the sun 
arose, a ball of fire, glorious, brilliant. The fire 
had sunk low. Its light was not needed now. 
The earth was all ablaze with the new light, and 
a thousand rubies blazed over all the sea. 

Bernard was the first to open his eyes. “ Oh, 
dear!” he said, with a look on his face which 
made Dick laugh in spite of himself ; “ I thought 
breakfast was ready ! ” 

With a pang Dick faced the fact that there 
could be no breakfast. He made himself very 
unhappy about it. The sand, the sea, the rocks, 
— how could beefsteak and fried potatoes and 
hot rolls and coffee come out of the sea and the 
sand and the rocks? And Dick could not im- 
agine a breakfast Avithout these things. Bernard 
became rueful enough when he realized the truth. 


150 ST. martin’s summer 

Elise awoke and made the state of affairs 
worse. 

“No breakfast ! If I were a boy, instead of 
being a poor, helpless girl, I’d not sit there like 
a fool ! ” she exclaimed, turning to Alfred. “ I’d 
go and find something to eat. Surely you might 
get a little fruit and find some coffee somewhere. 
There’s always coffee to be had if you know 
where to find it. Don’t tell m^, you stupid crea- 
ture, that we are on a desert island ! There must 
be something.” 

Alfred was unable to defend himself against 
this onslaught. He hung his head gloomily. 

“ Don’t talk that way, Elise,” said Alice, gently. 
“ The boys are doing their best. Don’t you see 
you are discouraging Alfred ? ” 

“ Nonsense ! ” cried Elise. “ Who encourages 
me f Look at my clothes, dried and pickled in 
sea- water. Pm a nice-looking object ! If Dick 
had not undertaken to steer we should not be 
here now, starving.” 

Dick took no notice of this unkind and un- 
true speech. Alice wondered where the refined 
Thorndyke manner was now. 

“And your Jimmy Brogan? — where is he 


A STORY ENDS 


151 


now ? ’’ continued Elise. “ Gone, of course. I 
suppose he is lying under a tree somewhere, 
eating his breakfast comfortably.” 

Dick and Bernard could not help laughing at 
the absurdity of this. 

At this moment Jimmy bounded into the circle. 
He drew out of his pocket a number of what 
looked like stones, and threw them into the fire! 
He laughed at the surprise of the party, saying, 
“There are plenty of clams on the beach. We 
shall not die as long as we can have roast clams. 
And it’s Friday, too ; so they are just what we 
want.” 


152 


ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER 


XXI 

A LESSON FOR ELISE 

It was a lovely day. Kose said, with a sigh : 
‘‘We can say the same prayers, anyhow, no mat- 
ter where we are.” 

Clams, raw and roast, having a charm of 
novelty, were not disdained even by Elise. 
After the repast the young people began to feel 
less gloomy. Jimmy’s spirits apparently were 
very high ; but his heart was heavy enough as 
he looked at the rock, sand, and sea, and won- 
dered how long they could live on clams. 

As the sun rose higher it became necessary to 
awaken Mr. Richards, who had sunk into deep 
sleep. The sand reflected the heat ; some shelter 
must be found. The boat still lay, keel-upward, 
on the beach. Jimmy and Dick consulted as to 
how it could be made useful as a shelter. Elise, 
called in to give an opinion, was as helpless as 
possible. Alice, who had hitherto depended en- 
tirely on others, now felt the necessity of helping 


A LESSON FOR ELISE 


153 


the boys. The spectacle of Elise’s selfishness 
aroused her to this. Elise had curled her- 
self into a slight fissure of the rock, and opened 
a rather moist novel, which she had put into her 
bag, which, like Alice’s, had been tightly strapped 
to her waist. 

It was plain that she had made up her mind to 
consider only her own comfort. Alice was 
shocked by her selfishness. On shore she would 
have believed her friend the most unselfish of 
human beings. Of course she allowed a great 
deal for the fact that Elise was a Thorndyke, and 
Elise always said that “the Thorndykes had 
always had their own way from the time of 
William the Conqueror ” ; and Alice had always 
yielded the best of everything to her, as a matter 
of course. But Elise’s pretensions appeared in a 
new light at sea. Bhe contrasted her with 
Jimmy Brogan. 

Poor Jimmy, who brought the milk every day, 
and was nobody at all at home, seemed to be 
much better here than even a Thorndyke ! He 
was cheerful and kind, and eager to help them 
all. Dick, in spite of his Latin and the fact that 
he was a Watson, looked up to him. Thm some- 


154 


ST. maetin’s summee 


what shocked Alice. It began to dawn on her 
mind that, after all, perhaps Jimmy’s bravery 
and kindness might be worth more than all the 
knights and Thorndyke ancestors. As to Alfred, 
whose nerves were the weakest in the party, he 
clung close to Jimmy, and followed him about as 
a dog follows his master. Elise raised her e3^es 
for a moment from her book to rebuke him. 

“ I don’t understand what you see in that 
boy ! ” Elise said. “ If I were you I’d have more 
proper pride than to take his orders.” 

“Well, we’d have had no breakfast if it had 
not been for him,” responded Alfred, hotly. 

“It’s his business to wait on us,” responded 
Elise. “ He understands that sort of thing. 
Dear me, it is getting hot! I wish I had an 
umbrella.” 

“What do you think of your Elise now?” 
whispered Dick. 

Alice turned her head away. Elise had the 
only sheltered position. The others were ex- 
posed to the direct rays of the sun. Jimmy was 
evidently thinking. Alice did not complain, but 
she said to herself that if the sun continued to 
shine she must become blind. Her head ached. 


A LESSON FOR ELISE 


155 


Bernard and Kose ran down to the beach and 
dipped their heads into the sea. They forgot the 
perils around them in “ racing with the waves,” 
as Dick called it. 

Jimmy and Dick consulted. Elise said : 

“O Alice, you must read this book! You 
never in all your life saw such a sweet girl as 
Elaine. She’s just too lovely 1 I never cried so 
much in my life as I have since I began the 
chapter about her being lost in London.” 

And Elise wiped her eyes. 

And there was poor Mr. Kichards, to whose 
head Alice was holding a wet handkerchief ! 
Elise did not give a thought to him. 

“ If we had a shawl ” Jimmy began. 

“Elise has one in her bag,” Alfred said. 

“ And I intend to keep it there,” quickly re- 
sponded Elise. 

“But we could make an awning if we had 
one ” 

Elise laughed scornfully. “ If you people 
would go and find shelter in the rock, as I have 
done, you would not need an awning. I can’t 
have my shawl used for an awning.” 

“ Oh, let her go on I ” cried Dick. “ The more 


156 


ST. martin’s summer 


she shows her true character, the more I am 
pleased. It’s not likely that Alice will imitate 
this.” 

“ Alice can do as she chooses,” said Elise, loft- 
ily. “We are here on a desert island because 
you insisted on steering the yawl. We’re here 
through your fault, and you must take care of us. 
I don’t intend to become a servant and soil my 
hands or inconvenience myself for anybody. 
Alice can do as she chooses. Whatever hap- 
pens,” she said, with a scornful glance at Alfred, 
“ / shall never forget that / am a Thorndyke ! ” 

Dick’s eyes sparkled and some angry words 
were about to rush from his lips. Jimmy put his 
hand on his shoulder. 

“ Remember she’s a girl, Dick.” 

“ Girl or no girl,” cried Dick, “ she’s — she’s — a 
crocodile ! ” 

They laughed at this. Elise went on with her 
novel. 

Jimmy walked into the opening between the 
rock, carrying a huge stick in his hand. He 
found himself in a cooler atmosphere. The 
spring had come with a burst. The high rocks 
were draped with creepers covered with tender 


A LESSON FOR ELISE 


157 


green leaves. The trees were still fairly well 
clothed in their fall garments. There were a 
great many of them. They filled a narrow space 
between what seemed to be a salt-water lake of 
great dimensions and the narrow stretch of sand 
that ran along the rocks. Along the inner side 
of the rocks were numbers of saplings, their 
leaves touched with yellow. Jimmy, remember- 
ing the plant that had floated out to them, 
looked in vain for a patch of any growth that it 
might have come from. 

Although the rays of the sun fell on the im- 
mense lake, the air was cool and fresh along the 
line of the rocks. In the centre of the lake he 
noticed another island. In the middle of this 
island, which was tinted green, the sun struck 
something that gave back a dazzling brilliance, as 
if it were a huge diamond. Jimmy strained his 
eyes. He called Dick. What was it ? It was 
one great glare. It threw back the sun’s light 
boldly. What was it ? 

‘‘We shall soon know,” said Dick; “we have 
the boat.” 

This thought was a great comfort to Jimmy, too. 
After all, much might be done with the boat. 


158 


ST. martin’s summer 


The whole party, including the reluctant Elise, 
went into the cooler air behind the rocks. It 
was quite pleasant there. The change pleased 
everybody. Jimmy alone began to worry about 
their dinner. Mr. Kichards was feverish, but 
able to sit up. 

Jimmy, having racked his brains until he had 
a headache, asked Dick to go down to the beach 
and put the boat in order. Then he spoke of his 
perplexity ; but Dick could give no help. In the 
meantime the young people near the lake won- 
dered what the great brilliant reflection on the 
island could mean. 

Jimmy and Dick soon righted the upturned 
boat. It was uninjured. And, to their great 
joy, wedged under the stern-seat they found 
several provision boxes, and nailed to one of 
the ribs the water keg. Mr. Kichards’ tool- 
box was also safe under another seat ; and 
scattered on the beach were various tin boxes 
and cans, for the yawl had been well 
equipped. 

Jimmy opened the tool-box at once. It was 
dry enough, though some of the tools were a 
little the worse for their salt-water bath. Two 


A LESSON FOR ELISE 159 

stout fishing-lines coiled in a small, separate com- 
partment of the box pleased Dick. 

“ But what’s the use ? ” he said. “ We can’t 
fish. We’ve no bait.” 

Jimmy responded by picking up a gaping 
clam, and saying, “Why not? Clams make 
good bait sometimes. Shall we try it ? ” 

Dick and Jimmy carried the cans and boxes to 
the girls, and arming themselves with a piece of 
fiat wood each, to serve as a paddle, they pushed 
the boat down towards the surf. Jimmy baited 
his hook with a clam ; Dick followed his ex- 
ample. Then they rushed the boat into the 
breakers and jumped in. It did not take them 
long to get beyond the foaming lines into the 
dark-blue calm. They threw the lines, weighted 
with bits of rock, into the sea. Silence ; inter- 
est ; anxiety. Suddenly Dick cried out : 

“ You have a bite, Jimmy ! ” 

There was a strong tug at Jimmy’s line. 
Jimmy held on with both hands. He certainly 
had caught something. The line was taut. He 
pulled with all his might. It seemed that some- 
thing had caught him. The boat was pulled 
rapidly out to sea. Her bow cut streaks of foam 


160 


ST. martin’s summer 


from the gently moving waves. Jimmy held on 
to the side of the boat with one hand and 
crouched in the bow. 

“ Let go ! — let go ! ” cried Dick, frightened 
by the swiftness with which they were moving 
out to sea. 

“ 1 can’t ! ” Jimmy said. “ The line is wrapped 
around my wrist, and it’s cutting my hand in 
two.” 

The boat whizzed through the water. Jimmy 
could hardly keep in it, and his face was drawn 
with pain. Dick saw the shore receding. He 
could make out Bernard and Alice, who had 
come down to the beach, raising their arms im- 
ploringly. Jimmy looked back too, and saw 
this. Did they think they were deserted ? How 
awful would be their fate if Dick and he should 
be really carried out to sea ! He groaned out- 
right at the thought and with the pain of the 
tense line that was cutting into his wrist. 

“ Dick,” he cried, take my penknife and cut 
this line, if you want to save me from being 
pulled overboard ! ” 

Dick thrust his hand into Jimmy’s pocket. In 
an instant the line was severed, and almost at 


A LESSON FOR ELISE 


161 


the same instant the head of a shark appeared 
on the surface : he gnashed his jaws, to which 
the line still clung, and dived under the boat. 

Jimmy’s right hand was useless for the rest of 
the day. Dick hauled up a large fish, somewhat 
like the blue fish he knew so well from his trips 
to the Atlantic coast. 

The party ate a sumptuous meal of broiled 
fish — Alice cooked it as well as she could, — coffee 
out of one of the cans just found, and a biscuit 
each. Even Elise condescended to be cheerful. 
She had realized, as she saw the boat going out 
to sea, how dreadful might be her fate were the 
hateful Jimmy Brogan to leave them. It was 
plain that Jimmy was the mainstay of the party ; 
and that Dick, while a good follower, could not 
be depended on as a leader. 

As for Mr. Kichards, he was too sick to move 
from his sheltered place in a kind of cave which 
Kose and Bernard had discovered. Dried leaves 
and grass were carried into it. It led to a series 
of small caves in the rock, — admirably adapted 
for sleeping places if one had nowhere else to 
sleep. And,” as Bernard said, “ the hotel was 
some distance away.” 


162 


ST. maktin’s summer 


Elise’s suggestions were unnoticed by the 
young people, while Jimmy’s — always sensible — 
were received with attention. Elise for the first 
time in her life began to feel that there was 
something which could command more respect 
than social position and riches. 


AEDEJSr’s ROSAEY 


163 


XXII 

ARDEN’S ROSARY 

V 

The autumn night was cool and crisp; — so 
Dick and Jimmy built a big fire not far from the 
first of the series of caves, and the light wood, — 
some of it evidently live oak, — made a blaze 
which illuminated the neighborhood. Had the 
young folk been more experienced, they might 
have feared hostile natives, but they were not 
experienced, so they simply enjoyed the light, 
heat and sense of safety. And Mr. Richards 
could only lie still ; he could not think. 

“ I wish somebody would tell a story,” said 
Alice. “ It’s a night for stories.” 

“ Do you remember mother’s story of ‘Sarah’?” 
asked Rose. 

“ And Uncle Will’s of the Owl ? Weren’t they 
delightful ! ” said Bernard. 

There was silence. Rose began to cry softly 
to herself. 

“ Oh ! ” exclaimed Dick. “ I’ve something bet- 
ter than a story. It’s a play Uncle Will wrote 


164 


ST. martin’s summer 


for us just before he left, — we boys were to act 
it in the barn, as a surprise to mother. Ferdi- 
nand Esmond was to visit us, and he was to have 
been ‘ Captain Tom,’ I was to have been ‘ Captain 
Arden,’ and Bernard ‘ Ted, the Drummer Boy,’ — 
but Uncle Will had to leave for Ireland, — and we 
had planned to decorate the barn beautifully. 
Ferd came, but, as Uncle Will was away, the 
play was given up. I found it among a lot of 
things the other day. It’s in this brown envelope.” 

“ Bead it ! ” cried Kose, drying her eyes. 
‘‘Bead it ; it will seem like home ! ” 

“ Bead it ! ” said Elise. “ I’d listen to any- 
thing, to drown the horrible sound of the seal” 
And so. Bichard, who read very well, began 
“ Arden’s Bosary.” 

Scene — A guerilla camp on the Potomac Biver, 
near Arlington, Va. 

Time — During Gen. McClellan’s campaign before 
Bichmond. 

Costumes for Union soldiers — Artillery uniforms. 
CHABACTEES. 

Captain Edward Ar- Ted, a Drummer Boy in 
DEN, U. S. A. Crawford’s Tigers. 

“Captain Tom,” of A Sentinel, of Craw- 
Crawford’s Tigers. ford’s Tigers. 

Two Soldiers, U. S. A. 


aeden’s kosaey 


165 


Scene — A wood near a guerilla camp. Night. 
Curtain rises, discovering a sentinel pacing up 
and down. A snatch of song: “Maryland, 
my Maryland ! ” 

Sentinel. Who goes there ? 

Ted (l.). Ted, the Drummer Boy, — the boss 
sheepskin thumper of Crawford’s Tigers. 

Sentinel. That’s not the countersign ! 
Give it or I fire. 

Ted. Come off ! 

Sentinel. You imp of mischief ! You’ll be 
made food for the crows some night — I came 
very near making an end of you now 1 

{Enter Ted, the Drummer Boy.) 

Ted. The crows will never get me ; they fly 
too slow for me ! It would take a wide-awake 
crow to catch a Maryland boy. I’m not afraid 
of any Virginia crow — or any Virginia man 
either. The crows may feast on you and others 
of Crawford’s Tigers — for you’re born to be 
hanged — most of you ! But I’m all right. 

Sentinel. Take care. Got a chew of to- 
bacco ? 

Ted. Yes, sir — good Union tobacco, too. {Giv- 
ing Sentinel tobacco.) I’ll tell you how I got 


166 


ST. MAKTIN^S SUMMEK 


it. {Sits down on stuj7ip, L.) Did you hear the 
shots a minute ago ? 

Sentinel. Half an hour ago, you mean ? 

Ted. Well, maybe it was half an hour ago — 
I say it’s chilly ! These fall nights are damp. 
Must warm myself! {Gets uj), goes front and 
begins to whistle^ while he makes some dance stejos, 
with his hands in his joockets.) 

Sentinel. Come — stop that! Go on with 
your story ! (Ted keejps his steps.) 

Ted. It’s cold ! I wish the war was over, 
and I say we guerillas have the vrorst of it, 
tramping through marshes and hiding behind 
bushes. I wish I were home, with old black 
mammy, and the hoe cakes and fried chicken 
were smoking on the fire. Oh, my I 

Sentinel. It’s a long time since I tasted hoe 
cake or tobacco for that matter. Where did you 
get this, you imp ? 

Ted {sitting down on the stump. Sentinel 
c., leaning on his musket^ 

Ted (l.). You see two Federal officers were 
captured to-day. Captain Tom thought at first 
they were some of Mosby’s men in disguise, come 
with dispatches for us. But when he found out 


akden’s rosary 


167 


they were Union officers, he was flaring mad. 
One was wounded, and it seems the other fellow 
could have got off, if he had wanted to desert 
his brother. 

Sentinel. Were they brothers ? 

Ted. Yes — and brave fellows, too. You see 
there was a skirmish down by the Potomac, near 
old Fogy’s cabin, and a squad of Federals were 
sent flying across the bridge. This officer was 
wounded and the other tried to carry him, but 
couldn’t. Our men poured down on them like 
buzzards on a crowd of chickens. And the fel- 
low that wasn’t wounded, just swung his sword 
around his head until it blazed — ’twas like a 
circle. Oh, it was grand ! I never saw anything 
braver ! 

Sentinel. Take care ! — if Captain Tom hears 
you talking like that, he’ll court-martial you, — 
and his court-martial means swinging to a tree 

Ted. You’re dreaming ! He might hang you 
— you are only a soldier — but I’m a drummer, 
and there’s only one drummer among us. He 
couldn’t spare me ! 

Sentinel. Go on — remember he doesn’t like 
to have our enemies’ bravery praised. 


168 


ST. maetin’s summer 


Ted. Well — this officer was a brave man, and 
1^11 say it in Captain Tom’s face ; we are rebels, 
it is true, and he is a Federal, but we’re all 
Americans, for all that ! 

Sentinel. Go on — go on — where did you 
get this tobacco ? 

Ted. The officer kept our men at a safe dis- 
tance from him until there wasn’t any hope — we 
were too many for him. I tell you I hoped he’d 
get away. At last Captain Tom broke his sword 
with the butt of his musket, and the poor fellow 
and his wounded brother were taken. Captain 
Tom swore awfully about it, for it seems he had 
expected two spies of Mosby’s in Federal uni- 
form, and when he saw that these officers were 
men, not spies, his rage was awful ! 

Sentinel. Go on. 

Ted. He says — says he to the brave officer — 
“ Where’s the left wing of your army ? ” “ You’ll 
have to ask somebody else, sir ! ” the officer said. 
‘‘ All right ! ” says Captain Tom, and he grinned, 
— you know how he grins when he’s mad. 
“ What’s your name ? ” “ Lieutenant Kichard 

Arden, sir,” says he, bold as a lion ; “ and this 
wounded man is my brother, .Captain Edward 


aeden’s eosaey 


169 


Arden, who is wounded as you see.” “I see,” 
says Captain Tom, “ and I want to know whether 
the Union army’s left wing is anywhere near 
Long Bridge.” “ You’ll never know from me,” 
says the officer, straightening himself up, “ as I 
am an officer and a gentleman I ” And, by golly, 
1 felt just like making a good, long roll on the 
drum and crying “ Hurrah ! ” But I didn’t. 

Sentijstel. I reckon not, with Captain Tom’s 
eye on you ! 

Ted. But Captain Tom’s not the kind of a 
man General Lee is — General Lee would make 
short work of Captain Tom, if he saw what I 
saw. 

Sentinel. Hush ! What ? Who goes 
there ? ( Walks and down.) 

Ted. It was a squirrel in the grass. (Sentinel 
pauses^ L.) Captain Tom says to the officer, ‘‘ So 
you won’t tell.” “ Ho,” says the officer. ‘‘ Then,” 
says Captain Tom, “say your prayers!” The 
officer knew what that meant, and he pulled out 
a rosary and began. The wounded brother 
seemed to understand that too — he began to beg 
and beg for his brother’s life. But Captain Tom 
said it was “no go.” “When you see that I 


lYO 


ST. martin’s summer 


mean business, perhaps you’ll be willing to open 
your lips.” The officer who had the beads 
smiled and stooped and kissed his brother on the 
forehead and smiled again just as if he was sure 
that wild horses wouldn’t pull a secret out of the 
wounded one, and then went on with his beads.” 

All right — you won’t speak ? ” says Captain 
Tom. “You won’t speak, boy?” The officer 
took off his coat and waistcoat and stood up in 
his shirt-sleeves ; and then he kissed his brother 
again, and gave him his beads. “You’ll never 
speak again ! ” He took aim — and you know 
what always happens when Captain Tom 
fires. 

Sentinel. Yes — yes — I’m sick of this ! 

Ted. When Captain Tom shook his fist at the 
wounded one and says, says he, “ I’ll give you 
till the rising of the moon to think whether 
you’ll die like him, or tell me just what General 
McClellan intends to do. Take him away, men ! ” 
As nobody was looking, I picked up the murdered 
man’s coat and waistcoat and brought them here 
— they may be useful some time. And though 
Captain Tom wears a pair of Federal army 
trousers — and has the only decent pair in camp 


aeden’s kosaey 171 

— he would not demean himself to put on a 
Union coat and waistcoat. 

Sentinel. Where are the clothes ? 

Ted. In the bushes there. {Points L.) In 
the waistcoat I found the tobacco ; and, as I 
don’t chew myself, I just brought it to you. 

{N'oise heard.) 

Sentinel. Who goes there ? 

Voice (r.). Come on! IN'o fooling. Toucan 
walk. 

Captain Arden. O Heaven ! would it were 
into my grave I 

Sentinel. Who goes there ? 

Voice. Captain Tom! 

(Ted goes out L.) 
(Enter Captain Tom r. with Captain Arden. 

Arden walks slowly as if in pain.) 

Captain Tom (flinging Arden c. on stage). 
You have seen me kill your brother ! (Sentinel 
goes up staged You know that I mean what I 
say — I must know of the movements of your 
army before the rising of the moon, or you shall 
follow him ! 

Arden laying c.). I will follow him ! — gladly ! 
gladly ! 


1Y2 ST. martin’s summer 

Captain Tom. We shall see. I will shoot 
you like a dog, if you do not speak before the 
moon rises above yonder hills. 

Arden. I will never turn traitor. 

Captain Tom. You shall die, then — by 
Heaven ! 

Arden. My brother and I knew you in other 
days, Tom Crawford. We were schoolfellows; 
you received many kindnesses at his hands ; he 
was good ; he was kind ; he was forgiving. 
When you would have gone to prison for 
embezzlement; when the people of Kichmond 
called you “ thief ” and “ rogue ” — God knows 
whether you were or not — he saved you — he 
defended you with all the eloquence of a 
lawyer and a friend ! And you — you have mur- 
dered him ! 

Captain Tom {drawing Ms sword). Murder ? 
— You dare 

Arden. Oh, kill me ! Murder me ! — I do not 
want to live. 

Captain Tom {putting hack his sword). You 
shall live only until the moon rises, if you do not 
tell me what I want to know. 


Arden’s rosary 173 

Arden. I will never be a traitor 1 G.o ! 
Curse you ! Curse you ! 

(Exit Captain Tom.) 

Captain Tom (laughing). Until the rising of 
the moon ! 

(Sentinel goes f urther back.) 

Captain Arden (slowly rising and leaning 
to the front). Am I mad ? Do I sleep and 
dream ? Or is my brother really dead ? O 
Dick, Dick ! would that I had been taken instead 
of you — would that I could have died for you ! 
It is death to live without 3^ou, worse than a 
thousand deaths ! (Looking R.) How calm the 
Potomac sleeps — how silvery — how serene ! I 
must be dreaming ; he is not dead. (“ Llome^ 
Sweet Home ” played by band in the distanced) 
O Dick, Dick, Dick — oh, death is life — the days 
that are no more ! (Falls forward.^ covering his 
face with his hand / the music grows fainter and 
fainter.) Ah, home, sweet home! How often 
we bathed in the placid river there or breasted 
its waves in boyish joy ! — we two — only we two 
— the world seemed made for us two! What 
castles we built in the air ! He always wanted 


174 


ST. martin’s summer 


to be a soldier ! — I said I would one day be a 
raissioner and convert the Indians, and so wo 
planned and played, and laughed, and laughed, 
and went to school, and prayed together at the 
foot of the statue of the Blessed Virgin — her two 
little clients prayed ! — but I can never, never pray 
again, though I must die to-night. 

Voice. Do not say that ! 

Arden. Whose’s there ? 

Voice. It’s I — only Ted, the Drummer! 
Don’t speak so loud — the sentinel will hear you. 

(Ted crawls from hushes L.) 

Ted. Nothing ; I don’t like to hear you talk 
that way. 

Arden. I saw you there when my brother 
died ; you looked sorrowful — yours was the only 
pitying face there ! 

Ted. The men all pitied him, except Captain 
Tom. 

Arden. Yet they shot him I 

Ted. They are soldiers. 

Arden. This Captain Tom was once our 
friend — our comrade ; we played together — we 
sat on the same bench at school — he ate our 
father’s bread and warmed himself at our fa- 


ARDEN’S ROSARY 175 

ther’s hearth ! Oh, curse him, curse him ! — curse 
him ! 

Ted. Don’t say, that ! Your brother prayed 
for his enemies as he died; — I heard him say, 
“ Forgive them ! ” 

Arden (rising), I heard him. (Presses his 
hand to his hreast.) My wound pains; it has 
ceased to bleed ; it will not kill me. If I were 
not a Christian I would tear it open and kill 
myself — and defeat this devilish miscreant who 
dares to call himself a soldier. (Shivers.) It’s 
cold. The wind from the Potomac is frosty to- 
night. ’Tis the last day of September — the day 
of his birth ! O Kichard, brother, come back ! — 
come back. (Ted goes out L. and returns with 
Lieutenant Arden’s coat and hat.) An hour 
or so, and I shall be with you I 

Ted. Here, captain, wrap yourself in this 
coat. It is your brother’s. 

Arden. My brother’s ! (Examines the 
clothes.) Ah, yes — there is a spot of blood that 
spurted from his dear heart — a spot of blood — 
the truest blood from the truest heart in all the 
world. (Puts the clothes on tree-stumjg L.) Curse 
his murderer ! May all the curses of ten thou- 


/ 


176 


ST. martin’s summer 


sand murders fall on his head ! May he wither 
like a lightning-struck tree ! . May he die in tor- 
ment ! May his soul go down among the devils 
he loves 

Ted (c.). And you call yourself a Chris- 
tian ? 

Arden (l.). You have a good mother, boy. 

Ted (l.). I had, sir — she’s dead. 

Arden (c.). Do you not want to die and go 
away from this camp of fiends? You are too 
good for them. You have a knife — give it to me 
in mercy. Kill yourself first — you are in hell 
here. Come, give me the knife ! 

Ted (secretly). If I killed myself, I would 
never see my mother ; she is in Heaven. 

(Arden c. is silent. Music plays softly 
‘‘ Mome^ Sweet Home.'*'') 

Ted (l.). And, if you killed yourself, you 
would never see your brother. He died praying 
for those who killed him. 

Arden (c.). He is in Heaven. Oh, God, I 
am alone. I am forsaken, they have killed my 
only hope, my only friend, my brother ! I do 
not want to live! What can I do? (Turning 
sharply^ he drops rosary from his hr east.) 


aeden’s rosaey 177 

Ted {piching it up and giving it to him). It 
is your brother’s. Pray ! {Slow music.) 

(Ted goes hack to Sentinel.) 

Arden (o.). Pray I How can I pray ? But 
this boy is right — he must have a good mother — 
as we had, Dick and I. I began the rosary, as 
he was dying. {Kneels.) I will pray — I will 
try, even if the words burn my throat. My fin- 
gers were on this Pater when he died. {Slow 
music.) I will begin! — I cannot — I cannot — 
but I will. “ Our Father who art in heaven, hal- 
lowed be Thy Hame, Thy kingdom come, Thy 
will be done on earth as it is in Heaven, give us 
this day our daily bread, and forgive us our tres- 
passes, as we forgive ” 

{Standing up.) What ! forgive a murderer — 
the murderer of my brother? Never, never, 
never, never 1 I will not forgive him ! — let him 
burn alive for his crime ! — Ah, if I had a knife in 
his heart at this minute I would turn and grind 
it and turn it again until he suffered what I suf- 
fer now. No, I will not pray — I cannot forgive 
the villain, the liar, the destroyer of the best man 
that ever lived ! 


{Shots are heard.) 


178 ST. martin’s summer 

(Arden walks slowly hack on stage, 'pressing his 
hand to his side. He thrusts the rosary into 
the hr east of his coat, lea/oing the cross hang- 
ing out.) 

(Ted and the Sentinel come forward — Ted o., 
Sentinel l.) 

Ted. Poor fellow ! He will die game, though. 
Does Captain Tom mean to shoot him at the ris- 
ing of the moon ? 

Sentinel. As sure as death ! 

Ted. There is no escape ! 

Sentinel. If he tries it, I shoot him — if he 
passes me, he will run the risk of twenty bullets. 
He knows it, the captain told him. I like his 
looks ; but my orders are not to let him escape 
alive. I feel a little uneasy, Ted — one of Mosby’s 
men disguised passed ten minutes ago, reporting 
that the Yankees are near — in fact at the Long 
Bridge. But Captain Tom will be a match for 
them. 

(Sentinel walks up the stage slowly and paces 
at the hack, while Ted gathers sticks and dried 
leaves and tries to light a match which is evi- 
dently wet.) 

Ted (l.). There I it’s lit ! Ho it’s out again. 


aeden’s rosaky 179 

( Gets on his hands and knees and blows. Arden 
comes slowly down to R., his head bent) 

Arden. If I could kill Tom Crawford 1 
would ! If I could see him dead, I might forgive 
him. Oh, I would die willingly, could he be in 
my power for a moment ! 

(Ted starts up., and drops his knife. He shakes 
his head sadly, not noticing that he has left his 
knife on the ground^ {Exit L.) 

Arden {picking up the knife). I am armed — 
at least I can avenge my brother ! he picks 

up the knife, the rosary falls to the ground^ I 
am wounded — yes — but I am strong enough to 
send this keen blade to the villain’s heart. For- 
give him ? Who dare ask me to forgive him. If 
he were only here now ! 

{Shots are heard ; voices yelling ; a struggle 
behind the scenes. A loud yell • the sound of a 
trumpet sounding retreat?) 

Sentinel {descending rapidly to L. c.). The 
Yankees are here. {Looking L.) An officer and 
Captain Tom are fighting ! — The Yankee has the 
worst of it — no — he has knocked the sword out 
of Captain Tom’s hand — the captain fights like 
a tiger. Good heavens — the Yankee has slashed 


180 


ST. martin’s summer 


his right hand off ! {The hugle sounds retreat.) 
Retreat is the word ! come I {Turns to Arden.) 

Arden {showing knife). Take me if you can ! 

(Sentinel hesitates. Exit R.) 

{Enter Captain Tom, l., his handkerchief 
wrapped around his right hand.) 

Arden {putting his left hand on Captain 
Tom’s shoulder.^ and holding the knife in the 
right hand, near Captain Tom’s throat). You 
are in my power ! 

{The two men stand silent. Slow music. En- 
ter Ted, l.) 

Ted. Run, Captain Tom, run ! The Yankees 
are looking for you. They will give you no 
quarter. Run ! ( Crosses stage, exit R.) 

Arden. Ho, Tom Crawford, — I shall not 
need to kill you. I have only to keep you here 
until they come ! 

Captain Tom. Edward Arden, I know I am 
in your power — let me go. See, my hand is 
gone ; I can never fight again. You will violate 
no duty by saving the life of a maimed man — I 
am useless forever. {Showing his hand) My 
right hand is gone ! 

Arden. I know it — and by the rising of the 


aeden’s eosaey 


181 


moon — hrj the rising of the m,oon — you will be 
where f {Slow music.) 

Captain Tom {stoops and pichs up the ro- 
sary). And you refuse to forgive me in the pres- 
ence of the figure of your God who forgave all. 
{Holds the crucifix towards Arden.) You are a 
Christian and you deny the lesson of Christ. I 
am not, yet I accuse you. I tell you, Eichard 
Arden, if there were more Christians who acted 
what they believe, there would be fewer unbe- 
lievers like me ! 

(Arden snatches the rosary from Captain 
Tom.) 

Arden. You killed my brother ! 

Captain Tom. And your priests tell you 
that your sins helped to crucify your Lord, yet 
you expect to be forgiven. And you say every 
night and morning, “ forgive us our trespasses as 
we forgive those who trespass against us ” 

Arden {tremlling). Hush ! 

Captain Tom. I ask one favor of you. I 
have a little boy in Richmond. If you see him — 
and I fancy you and your accursed Yankees will 
get there soon enough — tell him that Christians 
do not forgive — that his father asked one of 


182 


ST. martin’s summer 


them for life — that a father, maimed, bleeding, 
suffering, begged for one chance and that a good 
Christian bade him die because he held venge- 
ance dearer than the example of Christ he pre- 
tended to follow ! 

Arden. I am an officer of the Union army. 

Captain Tom. And I am a helpless cripple 
who can never again bear arms. 

Arden. You murdered my brother ! 

Captain Tom. I say that Christians lie even 
in their prayers — they do not forgive. Kill me 
to prove the truth of my words. 

First Soldier (without). He entered these 
cedars. Give the desperate scoundrel a bullet 
the moment you see him ! 

Second Soldier. Ho quarter for the blood- 
iest guerilla of the war I 

Captain Tom. They are coming. I must die ! 
Christians are hypocrites — you will not pardon 
me ! 

Arden. O Mother of God, help me ! 

Captain Tom. It is too late — I must die. 

Arden. Ho! (Goes to the tree stump, L., 
tahes the coat and cap. He hastily puts them on 
Captain Tom.) (Enter soldiers at hach.) 


aeden’s eosaey 


183 


Arden. You are free. 

(Arden and Captain Tom stomd well down 
the stage^ with their faces to the audience.) 

First Soldier (advancing to c., mid salut- 
ing). Has the Guerilla Captain passed through 

this wood ? I beg pardon, Captain Arden 

(Turning towards Captain Tom.) Beg pardon, 
lieutenant, you are here, then he has not been 
here. Let’s search the creek I 

Second Soldier. All right ! 

(Exeunt^ saluting.^ L.) 

Arden (to Captain Tom). Go ! 

(Captain Tom makes a movement of gratitude 
to Arden, who covers his face with his 
hands.) 

Arden. Go — quickly, — I may repent ! (Exit 
Captain Tom, hack.) 

Arden. (Kneeling^ C., with rosary in his 
hands.) And forgive us our trespasses as we for- 
give those who trespass against us ; lead us not 
into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen ! 

(Moon slowly rises.) Music: ‘‘Home, sweet 
home.” 

(Quick Curtain.) 

* * * * * * 


184 ST. martin’s summer 

“ I would not have done it ! ” cried Elise. 
“ Never I ” 

“ Oh, yes, you would,” said Alice, “ but it would 
have been hard.” 

“ If we ever get to dry land, — I mean home 
land, — we’ll act it,” said Kichard. 

“Let’s go to bed,” said Elise, with a yawn. 
“ It was horribly gloomy. I wish you had not 
read it. The story you told last night was bet- 
ter ; but I hate stories about commonplace peo- 
ple. Oh, I hate everything ! ” and she began to 
cry. 

“ Thank you, Cousin Dick ! ” Alice called out, 
more ashamed of Elise than ever. “ Come, 
Elise, — you’re going to sleep in a cave, as your 
ancestors, the ancient Britons did, — that ought 
to satisfy you ! ” 

“ I hate you^ Alice ! ” replied Elise, as she was 
led off, weeping violently. 


A BIT OF GLASS 


185 


XXIII 

I 

A BIT OF GLASS 

Two days passed. Fish, and the preserved 
meat and vegetables the young people found in 
the cans, gave them food. A turtle was seen 
cast up on its back out of the lake ; but if Jimmy 
had not showed the girls how to make soup of it, 
it would have been entirely wasted. Elise dis- 
dained to touch the ‘‘ brute,’’ as she called it, 
with her fair hands ; she said that she intended 
to spend all her time on the island in cultivating 
her mind, so she buried herself in her novel — 
“ Elaine’s Love.” 

Alice had not learned to cook, — in fact, she 
knew nothing useful ; and when she saw Jimmy 
cutting up the turtle, and preparing to boil it in 
one of the large preserved-meat cans, she blushed 
and hung her head. Then she raised it, and said 
to Jimmy, 

“ I wish you would teach me to cook ! ” 

It was hard to ask any favor of the boy whom 
she had treated so shabbily. 


186 


ST. maetin’s summee 


“Of course I will,” said Jimmy, cheerfully. 

“ I had to do it when my mother was sick. 
Every girl ought to be able to cook.” 

“ You mean every girl in your class of life,” 
called out Elise. “ But I don’t see why young 
ladies in ours should soil their hands.” 

“You’ll see that soon enough, if anything 
should happen to Jimmy,” said Dick, who was 
chopping some wood with the carpenter’s axe 
which he had taken from the tool chest. “ It is 
time that Elise stopped her nonsense. Jimmy is 
the best man among us.” 

“ I’d be ashamed to acknowledge it, if I were 
you ! ” said Elise, closing her book and preparing 
for battle. 

“ I am not. I would be proud to be more like 
him. And if I ever get home again I’ll try to 
be more like him. What I want to say now is - 
that the time has come for us to divide the 
labor. It’s a shame to have Jimmy doing all 
the work, — a downright shame, and I’ll not 
stand it I ” 

Elise laughed theatrically, but made no answer. 
Dick went on : 

“ Jimmy was awake until after midnight. 


A BIT OF GLASS 


isr 


What was he doing ? Why, studying my 
little Latin lexicon. He wants to know Latin, 
and I am going to teach him when he has time. 
But, with cooking, fishing, and planning, and try- 
ing to make us all comfortable, he has no time 
for improving Tiis mind, though he does not want 
to read novels.” 

“If Jimmy will teach me. I’ll do the cook- 
ing,” said Alice. “ I agree with all that Dick 
says.” 

It cost her some effort to say this. She knew 
that Elise was listening. And she was somewhat 
afraid of Elise. 

“ And what am I expected to do ? ” demanded 
Elise, with a smile of toleration for the antics of 
her inferiors. 

“ Nothing,” said Dick, gravely ; “ because it’s 
all you can do.” 

Elise was silent. It suddenly dawned on her 
that everybody around her looked on her as a 
drone. Even Mr. Eichards, who lay in one of 
the caves, trying to sew together some bags 
which were to form part of a tent, did not de- 
fend her. She threw down her novel and walked 
away with what in other days Alice would have 


188 


ST. martin’s summer 


called a “ queenly ” step. She went towards the 
lake. The sun’s rays fell full on the island, and 
were reflected in silvery lustre from the bright 
things upon it. She observed a glittering object 
at her feet. She picked it up. It was a small^ 
pane of glass framed in wood. It did not strike 
her that it was strange it should be there : she 
saw in it a possible looking-glass. 

Elise, in her own mind, was a beautiful crea- 
ture. She had always been well dressed, and 
that had added much to her high opinion of her- 
self. She and Alice had lived in a dream-land in 
which they were princesses. But now one look 
in the very imperfect mirror permitted her to see 
herself as others saw her ; her face was browned 
and freckled ; her hair, combed back, revealed a 
forehead reddened to the color of brickdust by 
the sun. Certainly there was nothing “distin- 
guished ” about her now. She could not believe 
her eyes. The mirror was very poor ; she could 
hardly make out her face in it at all, but what she 
saw was enough. She sat on the sand and cried 
— in earnest this time. 

“ I believe,” she said, — “ I believe I am no bet- 
ter than anybody else ! ” 


A BIT OF GLASS 


189 


Tears of wounded vanity ran down her cheeks. 
Scolding, reproaches, entreaties, had been wasted 
on her by her good teachers ; but the lesson 
taught her by that bit of broken glass was most 
effectual. When her tears dried, she felt utterly 
desolate. Who in this desert place cared for the 
Thorndyke ancestors ? What was a Thorndyke 
here better than Jimmy Brogan ? She felt hu- 
miliated ; and then, having no other l*esource, she 
knelt and said her prayers. 

When she returned to the little camp she saw 
Alice industriously stirring the soup. Cups and 
spoons for the whole party had been put away 
in Alice’s satchel, and Elise went up to her 
meekly and asked if she might have them to 
wash. 

Dick gave a long, low whistle, Rose giggled, and 
Bernard’s eyes became round as saucers. Jimmy 
alone spared Elise mortification by asking her 
cheerfully if she would help him to untwist a 
piece of rope ; for he was trying to mend a 
broken paddle. Elise complied very meekly. 
She could not get rid of the picture of herself in 
her rumpled clothes. How could she be so ugly ! 
Well, she must work and forget it. She could 


190 


ST. martin’s summer 


not imagine herself to be the beautiful Elaine of 
the novel now. 

Alice’s heart grew lighter as she noticed Elise’s 
subdued manner. And that night, for the first 
time, they said the rosary together, — Mr. Eich- 
ards, though not a Catholic, joining in it. 

The weather still kept clear ; but the autumn 
rains, — the tears of St. Martin, as Dick said,— 
might come at any time. The boys, having 
made a serviceable pair of paddles, resolved to 
explore the island ; so Jimmy, Dick, Alfred, and 
Bernard started off early in the morning, leaving 
Mr. Eichards to take care of the girls. 

It was not a long pull to the island. They 
armed themselves with the hatchets, the axe, and 
stout clubs. But they had no need of these. 
The island was small, covered with a soft, green 
grass, among which grew plants with white, star- 
like flowers. Bernard made up his mind to take a 
bouquet home to Eose. But just now there was 
no time for gathering flowers. 

When they reached the centre of the island 
they found the most astonishing thing. Before 
them stretched at least two acres of hot-beds 
covered with glass ! This had reflected the sun’s 


A BIT OF GLASS 


191 


rays. Beyond was a greenhouse, through the 
panes of which they could see waving green 
leaves. Dick rubbed his eyes. Jimmy stood 
stock-still. 

“ What do you think of it ? ” asked Dick. 

‘‘ I can’t think anything,” said Jimmy. “ It’s 
too sudden.” 

Cautiously they approached the plant-houses. 
They saw potato and tomato plants. 

“ Somebody lives here, evidently,” said Dick. 
‘‘ Why, there is a little hut I ” 

It was a small house made of planks, after the 
manner of a log cabin. The boys walked up the 
narrow, shell-bordered path which led to it. 
Jimmy knocked at the door, as the rest held 
back. 

“ Come in ! ” said a deep voice. “ I expected 
you’d come sometime. I know you’ll rob me, but 
you’ll not find much.” 

The boys opened the door. Inside the hut, 
stretched on a camp-bed, was an old man dressed 
in blue fiannel, with a red- tinted face, white hair, 
and kindly blue eyes. He half rose. His right 
hand clasped a crutch, which he seemed ready to 
use for the purpose of defense, if necessary. 


192 


ST. martin’s summer 


Jimmy looked him straight in the eyes, and 
made up his mind that this inhabitant of the 
island might be trusted. He advanced. The old 
man held out his hand. 

“ I thought you’d be coming over. I noticed 
your fire and the smoke, and a man that seemed 
to be sick ; I saw him through my glass.” 

“ Yes, we have a sick man. Jimmy here set 
his arm. It was broken below the elbow,” said 
Dick. 

“He must be a very smart boy, then,” an- 
swered the man, looking inquisitively at Jimmy. 
“ There are two bones in the fore-arm, and I 
don’t think that anybody but an experienced sur- 
geon could set them.” 

“There was only one broken,” said Jimmy, 
modestly. “ It was the ulna, — I think that is the 
name I heard it called by when I was sick in the 
hospital at Thorny dale.” 

The old man nodded his head approvingly. 

“ You’ve a good memory. I was once a nurse 
in a hospital myself, and I know a great deal 
about such things. But I’ve rheumatism now, 
and I can hardly get about to water my 
plants.” 


A BIT OF GLASS 


193 


“Are we near home?” cried Bernard, eagerly. 
“ Shall we have to stay here all our lives ? ” 
“This is my home,” said the old man. “I 
don’t know where yours is.” 

Dick told him, and also about the wreck. 
“Poor children!” said the old man. “You 
may come over here and help me. This is one of 
the pleasantest spots on earth. The winds hardly 
ever penetrate my thick walls of rock. And the 
spring comes sooner here. In a few wrecks I 
shall have a great crop of early vegetables. 
There’s another hut near this — see ! ” 

The boys noticed a little house, larger than the 
one occupied by their new acquaintance, some- 
what behind his. 

“ My helper used to live there ; but he went to 
Liverpool to see his friends, and the house will 
be empty for some months. The girls of your 
party can have it until he comes back, and you 
fellows can stay with me. But you’ll have to 
help me.” 

“ But shall we ever get home ? ” 

“ Certainly. Why not ? ” 

The boys were stunned by the coolness of this 


answer. 


194 


ST. MAETIN’S SUMMER 


“This is a coaling station for steamers, and 
their captains buy my vegetables, and are glad to 
get them. Of course you can get home.” 

Jimmy and Dick clasped each other’s hands. 
“Thank God!” they said, almost with one 


voice. 


A POETENTOUS HINT ^ 


195 


XXIY 

A POETENTOUS HINT 

The boys very cheerfully obeyed the old 
sailor’s direction, and rowed back for Mr. 
Kichards, Elise, Alice, and Rose. You can 
imagine their delight when they found that 
they were not hopelessly stranded on a desert 
island. 

The old sailor — who announced his name as 
Mr. Jeffreys, formerly of the brig Matanzas, 
in the Cuban sugar trade, — was very cordial 
and hospitable. He gave the girls a pile of 
buffalo robes, and did his best to make them 
comfortable. He had a great store of preserved 
meat and various delicacies. He did not give 
them much chance to talk, — in fact, he did all 
the talking himself. 

They soon discovered that he had been 
wrecked on the island, and, liking the climate, 
had volunteered to stay there with a companion. 
The captains of all the steamers that passed 
knew him, and he had something to say of all 


196 


ST. martin’s summer 


of them. The steamship companies supplied 
him with all the seed and plants he needed, and 
when they stopped for coal they were glad to 
take fresh vegetables at a very good price. The 
old sailor had only one grievance at present — 
he had lost his shaving-glass ; he apologized for 
the growth of beard on his cheeks and chin. 
After a while Elise delighted the old man by 
producing the triangular-shaped pane, in the 
wooden frame, from which she had learned her 
last lesson. 

Jeffreys was pleased ; he forgot his rheumatism. 
Bernard and Bose attracted him particularly. 
They were like his little nephew and niece up in 
Maine, he said. 

Kose asked him how old his niece was, and her 
name. 

“Esmeralda, my dear; and she must be just 
your age — but bless me ! I haven’t seen her for 
over twenty years ! She must be older now. 
How time flies ! ” 

And he laughed at his mistake. Jimmy was 
glad to see the rest of the party join gaily in the 
laugh. It was the first hearty laugh that he had 
heard since they left the Oceanic. 


A PORTENTOUS HINT 


197 


Jeffreys hobbled through the greenhouses, 
showing them a lemon-tree full of fruit, and 
an orange-tree which had both fruit and blos- 
soms. There were a few roses; the rest of 
the greenhouses had onions, young lettuce, 
parsley, and potatoes^; the vegetables under 
the glass frame on the ground were mostly 
green tomatoes. 

The boys seized the water-cans and went 
through the greenhouses, directed by the sailor, 
who now sat resting in his chair. The girls, 
under the same direction, searched for the red 
spiders which were the dread of Jeffreys’ 
life ; they were the only things he was afraid of. 

The recovery of his shaving-glass added to his 
good humor, and Jimmy’s quickness in under- 
standing his directions confirmed him in his 
pleasant mood. The boys worked so willingly 
that they had sprayed the under side of the 
leaves of all the important plants in a short 
space of time. Jeffreys had invented a decoc- 
tion for this purpose ; for tobacco and tobacco 
smoke were of no use. “ They thrive on these,” 
he said ; ‘‘ and if they were boys, they’d be 
cigarette smokers. They’re just pesky enough 


198 


ST. martin’s summer 


to poison human beings, like cigarette fiends, if 
they had the chance.” 

Bernard looked guilty. He had considered it 
a “smart” thing to smoke cigarettes. But 
Aunt 'Susan had made him promise not to do 
it any more; however, he suspected that the 
old sailor was making a fling at him. And 
the old sailor saw his conscious look and 
chuckled. 

The young people spent the evening on the 
lawn in front of Jeffreys’ hut. He told stories 
of sea-life, while they sat silent, watching the 
moon as it rose, and hearing the measured 
dash of the waves coming from outside the 
wall of rock. 

They were almost happy — all except Jimmy. 
There was a great weight on his heart. 
Hitherto he had been buoyed by the necessity 
of working for the others. He was very sad. 
All his mother’s hopes were at an end. He 
should have to go back to Thorny dale, to be 
a hewer of wood and a milker of cows all his 
life. His dear mother would grow old before 
his eyes, working harder each day, with no 
hope for him. It would take a long time to 


A PORTENTOUS HINT 


199 


pay off his father’s debts, — it would mean many 
weary steps for her, many doubts, many anx- 
ieties; for his good-will and young muscles 
could not save her these. His heart sank. 
He wished that his mother and he were on 
this island, free from the scorn of the rich and 
proud, with no one to care for but themselves. 

Some question or other awoke him from his 
reverie. He sighed. Elise turned in surprise. 

“ You have been so cheerful ! ” she said. 
“ Why are you ‘ blue ’ now ? ” 

Jimmy was embarrassed. “ Oh I ” he an- 
swered, “I don’t know — that is — to tell the 
truth,” he continued, I hate to think that I 
shall have to see my mother work when I 
go home. I hoped that things would have 
changed.” 

Elise made no answer. Jimmy, who was 
studying a page of ‘‘ The Following of Christ ” 
every day, ran over his day’s lesson in his mind. 

Elise took Alice’s hand in hers. 

“ Alice,” she whispered, I am sorry for my- 
self. How silly I — we — have been! I wish I 
were half as good as Jimmy Brogan.” 

“ I wish you were,” Alice answered, simply. 


200 


ST. maetin’s summer 


Elise did not quite like t Lis. Her cheeks 
flushed. 

“ Can’t we help him ? ” she asked, turning to 
Dick. 

Dick grunted. “ The best thing you can do,” 
he said, ‘‘is to let him alone. God will help 
him and he’ll help himself. But, if you con- 
descend to ask my advice, I should suggest that 
you try to make up by your manner to him for 
what he has suffered ” 

“ Yes, yes ! ” said Elise, hastily. 

The old sailor’s eyes, sharp as needles, had 
noticed Jimmy’s thoughtfulness. He asked him 
to help him with his arm around the walk 
which bounded the vegetable garden. Jimmy 
gladly consented. When they were out of 
earshot of the young people, the sailor asked 
Jimmy many questions about his home life. 
Jimmy answered truthfully. The sailor said 
little ; but he showed sudden interest when 
Jimmy spoke of Mr. Drew’s rafts. 

“ If you had money, what would you do with 
it?” 

“ I would buy mother a house and save her 
from the hard work she does, pay off father’s 


A PORTENTOUS HINT 


201 


debts, and then get a good education for my- 
self.” 

“ Why do you want an education ? Isn^t 
an education useful only to get money ? If 
you had money, why should you want an 
education?” 

Jimmy looked in amazement at the old 
sailor. “ Do you really mean what you say ? ” 
he asked. 

‘‘ You haven’t answered my question.” 

“Well,” said Jimmy, “I can only say that I 
should rather be poor all my life if I had an 
education than rich without one.” 

“Well said ! I wish more American boys had 
your spirit. I’m not a man of education myself, 
— I wish from my heart I were. But I some- 
times think that in heaven I shall get what I 
couldn’t get on earth. I learned too well that 
if one neglects one’s chances in early life, 
money will not make up for it when one is 
older.” 

Jeffreys had dropped his usual nasal drawl, 
and his expletives like “ dog gone ” and “ pesky.” 
He spoke so seriously that Jimmy felt an added 
respect for him. 


202 


ST. maetin’s summer 


“ I hope God will let me be a good priest,” 
said Jimmy. “ I pray for that every day.” 

Jeffreys’ face changed. 

‘‘ Are you a Catholic ? ” 

“ Why, certainly,” said Jimmy. “ Didn’t you 
know ? We are all Catholics.” 

Jeffreys was silent ; then he said : 

“ I am glad of it. Perhaps you can explain 
some things — but I have a secret. Do you want 
to be rich ? ” 

Jimmy was astonished by this question. 

“ I don’t know,” he said. “ I want to help 
my mother ; I want to be well educated ; I want 
many things ” 

“ I understand. If I make you rich, will you 
give up your wish to become a priest ? ” 

“ IS’ever ! ” said Jimmy, firmly. “ ITever ! ” 

The old sailor said it was getting chilly, and 
they walked back to the hut in silence. 

Once back, about the fire, life took a more 
cheerful color. After the evening meal, Alice, 
who had found two red-bound books in Clara’s 
and Bob’s handwriting, volunteered to read 
aloud. 

‘‘ My sister Clara,” she said, “ wrote this as a 


A POETENTOUS HINT 


203 


school composition, and I think it is very funny. 
Shall I read it?” They all agreed. “If you 
like it, I’ll read Bob’s, too. It is supposed to be 
written by a little girl.” And Alice read : — 

March 1. — Aunt Esther asked me six times to- 
day where I expected to go to. She told me 
that I was the worst girl in the neighborhood. 
She says I need occupation, and so she gave me 
this book. I don’t know when I shall have time 
to write in it. I am very sleepy now. And, 
besides, I shall have nothing to write about ex- 
cept my own badness. Let me see what I did 
to-day. I fed the chickens — there are a hundred 
of them ; I helped Hannah to churn ; I hemmed 
I don’t know how many napkins ; and mended 
Azalia’s frock, which I tore the other day as I 
was passing her in the doorway with a bundle 
of kindling wood in my arms. Aunt Esther saw 
me idling a moment, so she gave me this book. 
Dusk has come. I can’t see to write — I hear 
Aunt Esther calling me. 

March 3. — Nothing but badness to write 
about ! Yesterday I did not sift the ashes right. 
Hannah, the “ help,” would not do it, and of 
course Aunt Esther would not ask Azalia or 


204 


ST. martin’s summer 


Camilla to do it. It might spoil their hands, and 
they have beautiful hands. I was very clumsy 
about it. When Aunt Esther scolded me I grew 
angry, and asked her why I should be expected 
to do it. She did not answer at first, and then 
her eyes snapped — her eyes are not at all like 
father’s ; I do not see how they could be brother 
and sister, — and she said: ‘‘You are poor and 
dependent and bad tempered. You ought to be 
glad to do anything for your bread.” Then she 
said that I was ungrateful. It seems very hard. 
I must try to be better, and to hold my tongue. 

It is five years since my father went to China. 
I was just ten then. And he has been dead three 
years. I remember when the letter came. It 
was from the American Consul saying that dear 
father had been drowned. And then mother 
faded away. Ever since I have been with Aunt 
Esther. Aunt Esther is good : she goes to 
prayer meeting very often, and she will not let 
any cooking be done in her house on Sunday'. 
She is so good that she is always sure to see how 
very bad everybody else is. I wish that I could 
be good but not exactly like Aunt Esther. I 
should want to be good in some other way. But 


A PORTENTOUS HINT 


205 


I suppose it is my badness that makes me 
think so. 

March 6. — 1 have been busy getting Azalia’s 
and Camilla’s dresses ready for the concert. It 
is to be a ver}^ grand concert. Everybody in our 
part of the country seems to be going. Some 
Italian singers will be there, and everybody says 
it will be a great event. I went to town yester- 
day for Aunt Esther’s egg money. The chorus' 
was practising in the hall over the grocery store ; 
it was nice to hear them. I have heard little 
music since my mother died. Aunt Esther sings 
hymns which are solemn and slow. I know I 
ought to like them ; I think I might get to like 
them — in time, if Aunt Esther would not sing 
them through her nose. I feel that I shall soon 
hate “ Greenland’s Icy Mountains.” Aunt Esther 
says it is badness. I suppose it is. Camilla plays 
rattling pieces on the piano. She rushes through 
all sorts of loud tunes, with crashes at the end of 
them ; I do not like them either. Aunt Esthen 
says I am envious. 

March 7. — Abraham Hopkins dropped in to 
supper last night, and talked and talked about 
the concert. Madame Soli is to sing “Home, 


206 


ST. martin’s summer 


Sweet Home”; and a famous singer, “The Last 
Eose of Summer.” Abraham showed us the 
programme. He said that there will be ever so 
many instruments in the band. I wish I could 
go ! Azalia and Camilla are going to wear their 
blue silk frocks. Oh, dear! Even if I had a 
ticket I could not go, I have nothing to wear. 

March 8. — I dreamed all last night of the con- 
cert, and this morning Aunt Esther saw me cry- 
ing. She said it is wrong to wish for what is 
impossible, and that it was as much as she could 
do to give her own daughters this recreation, 
without speaking of me, who ought to be earning 
my bread instead of thinking of concerts. I sup- 
pose I ought. But everybody is talking about 
it. I wish I could go, too I Abraharn Hopkins 
came in to tell us that two big fiddles have been 
sent down, and that the newspaper says the event 
will be a musical coruscation of national impor- 
tance. He says he’d rather lose ten dollars than 
miss it. He wishes I were going too. Dear me ! 
I wish everybody would stop talking about it! 
Aunt Esther says that I ought to concern myself 
with more serious things. She kept me sewing 
her dress all day. She says it is her duty to go 


A PORTENTOUS HINT 


207 


where her daughters go, but that she cares very 
little about such things. She kept Abraham to 
tea, and asked him whether the singers were to 
be dressed finely or not. 

March 9. — I am to go ! It seems so strange ; 
Abraham came in to say that his mother would 
have a ticket to spare. Her niece is going to 
Washington, so that she cannot come. And 
Mrs. Hopkins sent word that I might have the 
ticket. How happy I am ! I could dance ! I 
could sing ! And Abraham’s mother sent me a 
blue frock, because I helped to nurse her when 
she was sick in the summer. The concert is only 
five days off. I could make ten dresses in that 
time, if I felt as I do now. If Aunt Esther 
helps me to cut it out, I am sure I can make it 
myself. Aunt Esther tightened her lips when 
Mrs. Hopkins’ present came ; she said she did not 
know who was to take care of the house, and my 
heart sank. But Hannah spoke up, and said that 
she guessed she could look after things. Aunt 
Esther grumbled, and said that I expected too 
much. Maybe I do. If I can only go to the 
concert, I will never expect anything else — I 
know I won’t ! 


208 


ST. martin’s summer 


March 10. — An awful thing has happened. 
The house in gloom. Aunt Esther goes about 
with two straight lines on her forehead, and her 
mouth shut tight. Camilla’s frock is spoiled ! 
She dropped the inkstand yesterday, and her 
blue silk is all over spots. I am very, very 
sorry ! I can’t help crying when I think of it. 
She has other dresses, but she says she cannot go 
to the concert unless she has one as good as 
Azalia’s. Of course Aunt Esther will not buy 
another silk dress. Mrs. Hopkins came in, and 
said it was a judgment on the girls; they were 
too fond of dress, anyhow. I felt how bad I am 
to think so much of my dress, which Aunt Esther 
has consented to let me make, after I have fin- 
ished all the mending and hemming. 

Aunt Esther said if I had a spark of gratitude 
or of the proper spirit, I’d give my new frock to 
poor Camilla*. But Mrs. Hopkins answered that 
she would not allow such a thing. Then Aunt 
Esther closed her lips tight, and said that she 
knew what it was to nurse a serpent in her 
bosom. I know she meant me. I wonder if I 
am so bad as that ? Once when Aunt Esther 
called me a pauper, I felt like killing her. I 


A PORTENTOUS HINT 


209 


know that it was wicked ; but it is so hard to be 
good ! Mr. Hardwicke preaches such long ser- 
mons in church ! They do not help me at all. 
And when I look at the white walls, I feel tired, 
and God seems so far off ! And the more Aunt 
Esther and Mr. Hardwicke talk about Him, the 
farther off He seems. They think that He be- 
longs to them, and they pretend to pray to Him : 
but it seems to me that they are trying to tell 
Him what to do. Oh ! I hope this is not blas- 
phemy, but I suppose Aunt Esther would say it 
is. Oh, Jiow shall I learn to be good ! I read a 
long genealogy in the Bible on Sunday, and then 
learned it word for word. Aunt Esther says it 
ought to touch the hardest heart. My heart 
must be very hard. Why am I not good like 
other people ? 

March 11. — I cannot write. I am going to 
run away. Aunt Esther says I am too wicked to 
live. I cannot stand it. I will run away — I 
will ! I cannot be any worse than Lam. 

March 12. — Aunt Esther found me packing my 
things in a basket. She asked me what I was 
doing. I said I was going to run away. She 
asked me, “ Why ? I said I could not stay any 


210 


ST. martin’s summer 


longer. And that, if she insisted on taking away, 
my dress, and on giving it to Camilla, I would go, 
in spite of her. Then she screamed, and called 
her daughters and Hannah, and tried to faint on 
the sofa. But Hannah slapped her so hard with 
her big red hands, that she thought it best to 
come to. Then she told over again how wicked 
I was not to give Camilla my frock, when poor 
Camilla and she had taken me in out of charity, 
when I had hardly enough to pay my board. 
And Hannah said that she knew my money was 
of great use to Aunt Esther, and that she wouldn’t 
have me called a pauper, if she w(is only a hired 
girl. And Aunt Esther said, “ Begone ! ” And 
Hannah said she wouldn’t be called names by any 
woman alive ; and that, when she was done mak- 
ing the soft-soap, she’d shake the dust of Aunt 
Esther’s house off her feet. So Aunt Esther 
locked me into my room. And here I am. 

Camilla is to have my new dress, and Aunt 
Esther will use the ticket for the concert Mrs. 
Hopkins sent me. Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! I feel so 
very wicked in my heart ! I would rather die 
than stay here. I hate to sweep, I hate to iron, 
I hate to work in the kitchen. I feel that I shall 


A PORTENTOUS HINT 


211 


get sick if I try to do things about the house 
again. What is the use of it ? I can’t please 
Aunt Esther by doing it. She is never satisfied. 
I am sure if I thought that my staying here, and 
doing my work without talking back to Aunt 
Esther when she says nasty things to me, would 
please God, I would stay. But Aunt Esther 
seems to think that God is very angry with me 
all the time, and that she is the only person that 
can please Him. And Mr. Hardwicke, the min- 
ister, always listens to what she says about me. 
Oh, dear ! to think that I shall never hear that 
great Italian singer ! To think that when the 
lights are all lit, and everybody is there in the 
hall, Camilla will walk in dressed in my frock, 
and listen to “ Home, Sweet Home ! ” I can’t 
stand it ! I wonder if this is envy. 

I can write as long as I choose, because I 
am locked in. I often wonder whether if Aunt 
Esther had not moved from Maryland, she would 
be nicer. Father and mother were so lovely ! 
And Aunt Esther, being father’s sister, must 
have been nice at some time or other. She has 
lived only two years in this place ; I wonder if 
places change people. Sometimes I think it is 


212 


ST. martin’s summer 


goodness or religion that makes people cross. 
Mr. Hardwicke, who is very religious, is very 
cross; and on Sunday, when Aunt Esther is 
always better than on any other day, and reads 
her Bible, she frowns and scolds continually. 
Mrs. Hopkins, who plays the piano on Sunday, 
and who is not considered to be at all as good as 
Aunt Esther, is nice. I do not quite understand 
it. If I knew some people who were both good 
and nice, I think I would be better. But, oh ! 

how can I stand it 

Is that Abraham Hopkins’ voice in the kitchen ? 
Yes. It is too bad ! He said : “ Ma says she’ll 
come over for Agnes about six o’clock, as she 
doesn’t want to risk getting a bad seat ; and she 
says that she hears the brass band from Cool- 
ville is coming over to serenade the Eyetalian 
singers after the concert. And she hopes Agnes 
will be ready in time.” I did not hear what 
Aunt Esther said, because she speaks lower than 
Abraham. But he went away. Oh, dear! oh, 
dear ! What’s the use of crying ? I wish I were 
a bird ; I would fly away. It is very sad to be 
an orphan, and have no one to take one’s part. 
Perhaps if I did not answer Aunt Esther back 


A PORTENTOUS HINT 


213 


SO often, she would not be so cross — that’s Han- 
nah at the door ! “ Poor lamb ! ” she says ; “ Pll 

throw some of my crullers over the transom; for 
she’ll not let you have anything but bread and 
water.” I feel better. I am so glad that I have 
always been kind to Hannah, and helped her 
when I could. I do not care so much for the 
crullers, but I love the sound of a kind voice. 

March 14. — Hothing has happened to prevent 
Aunt Esther from giving Camilla my frock ; and 
they’ve all gone to the concert, even Hannah. 
Aunt Esther would not let m^e tell Mrs. Hopkins 
why I could not go. How ungrateful she will 
think me ! Here I sit in the kitchen, writing by 
the light of the coal-oil lamp. Oh, if something 
only would happen, so that I could go ! The 
music has not begun yet. I can see Camilla in 
the front row, with a bunch of winter roses in 
her hands, smiling at everybody. And I can 
hear Mrs. Hopkins asking for me, and Aunt 
Esther not giving her any satisfaction. Perhaps 
Mrs. Hopkins will say : “Isn’t that Agnes’ dress 
on Camilla?” And Aunt Esther will answer: 
“ Oh, yes ; but Agnes was so bad, I wouldn’t 
encourage her by letting her wear it.” 


214 


ST. maetin’s summer 


How can I sit quietly here and let it go on ! 
I remember father telling me the fairy story of 
Cinderella — the girl that sat among the ashes in 
the kitchen, — and how her stepmother and sis- 
ters went to a ball, and her fairy godmother 
came in, and changed the pumpkin into a coach. 
I wish I had a fairy godmother — I wish I had ! 
But she would have to have very great power to 
change anything here. The only time that is 
pleasant is the school time. And that is only a 
little while ; for Aunt Esther lets us go to school 
only three months in the year — perhaps Madame 
Soli is singing “ The Last Kose of Summer ’’ now. 
Oh! dear, it is awful to sit here, and to know 
I might have heard it ! If Cinderella’s god- 
mother — 

I had just written that when there was a knock 
at the kitchen door. I jumped up, and caught a 
glimpse of a face at the window. I saw at once 
that it was not a tramp’s face — or if it was a 
tramp’s face, that tramp had a very good face. 
I opened the door, and a pleasant voice said: 
“ May I come in and rest for a few minutes ? ” 
It was a voice of a nice godfather. “ Certainly,” 
I said. An old gentleman came in ; he was 


A PORTENTOUS HINT 


215 


dressed in black ; he took off his high hat, and 
sat down near the fire. I noticed that he wore 
a white collar all around his throat. He smiled 
in a very pleasant way. 

“ How cheerful you are here ! ” he said, brush- 
ing back his gray hair. “ And how lucky I was 
to see a light in the kitchen window, and to 
notice a little girl thinking so intently about 
something ! ” 

His kind, friendly look made me feel better at 
once. 

“ I was thinking of Cinderella,” I said ; “ they 
have all gone to the concert, and left me.” 

It amazed me to find that there was anybody 
who had not gone to the concert. 

“ Ah, that accounts for it ! I came to see 
Michael Dooley, over on the hill, about carting 
away the stones in the schoolhouse field ; but I 
find his house closed. They have gone to the 
concert.” 

‘‘ Oh ! yes,” I answered, ‘‘ everybody’s gone — 
but — but me.” 

“ Don’t cry, child,” he said ; ‘‘just sit down on 
that stool, and tell me all about it. It will do 
you good.” 


216 


ST. martin’s summer 


And I did. And the old gentleman seemed to 
understand me. He smiled now and then as I 
spoke, and shook his head when I told him how 
I had answered Aunt Esther back. Instead of 
saying angry things when I had finished, he put 
his hand gently on my head. As I looked into 
his ruddy but wrinkled face, I thought how nice 
old people might be if they wanted to. 

“You were thinking of Cinderella,” he said, 
smiling, “ when a fairy godfather came in, instead 
of a fairy godmother. Well, I cannot change 
pumpkins into carriages, or rats into coachmen, or 
your shoes into fur or glass slippers ; but I know 
how the unpleasant things in your life may be 
changed by love of the Prince. There was a 
prince in the story of Cinderella, you know. 
And your Prince ” — he lowered his voice rever- 
ently — “is our dear Lord. He loves you, and your 
love for Him will make even the hard things in 
life easy to endure.” 

His words made me feel like crying, though I 
did not quite understand him. 

“ I thought all religious people were cross,” I 
said ; and then I wished I had not said it. 

“ Ho, no,” he answered, smilingly ; “ religion 


A POKTENTOUS HINT 


217 


makes us cheerful. I have seen a great deal of 
the world, and I think true religion is the most 
cheerful thing in it.’’ 

“ Have you been in China ? — did you meet my 
father ? ” I asked. 

The old gentleman laughed. 

“ Yes, I used to live in China. I even wore a 
queue. I was a missionary. China is a big 
country. What is your father’s name ? ” 

“ George Conville. He is — he is — dead.” 

“ Conville ? Is it possible ? ” And he looked 
at me closely ; then he said : “ I am Father 

Demaret, of Coolville.” 

The priest I What would Aunt Esther say ? 

“I will come again,” he said — ^‘yes, I will 
come again. Think of your Prince, Cinderella. 
I thank you for a pleasant hour.” 

He gave me a little gold medal. He went 
away before I remembered that he had not 
answered my question about my father. 

March 15. — I had made up my mind to be dis- 
agreeable, to sulk, and to let the fire go out. 
But I looked at the little medal, and thought of 
what the priest had said about the Prince’s 
(Aunt Esther never called Him our dear Lord) 


218 


ST. martin’s summer 


having helped His beloved St. Joseph (I had 
never heard much of St. Joseph before) at the 
rough carpentering work ; and I brightened up 
the kitchen, and made some coffee. Aunt Esther 
and the girls were so glad to see everything so 
cheerful, after their long ride, that they forgot 
to be cross. They said the concert was splendid. 
They said they did not notice the music much, 
but that the dresses of the singers were very fine. 
Aunt Esther only grunted when I told her about 
the priest. 

March 16. — Father Demaret did know my 
father. He came in this morning, and told us 
how he had been the means of helping my father 
to become a Catholic. Aunt Esther did not 
believe him at first. But he showed her half a 
dozen letters — one of them speaking of a large 
amount of money my father had intrusted to 
him for her and me ; so she had to believe him. 
She was angry when he read a paper making him 
my guardian, and asking that I should go to the 
Catholic church if my mother did not object. “ 1 
object,” Aunt Esther exclaimed. “ Her mother is 
dead and I represent her mother. I believe you 
to be an impostor.” 


A PORTENTOUS HINT 


219 


“ Oh ! well, madam, in that case you will not ac- 
cept the money I have brought,” Father Demaret 
said. 

Aunt Esther hesitated ; but this made her con- 
sent very unwillingly, that I should go over to 
the church at Coolville only once — to see how I 
like it. 

“Agnes is naturally so bad,” she said, “that 
she hates all religion. That^s one consolation.” 

Father Demaret told us that he left China for 
his health. The climate was killing him. He 
had heard that Aunt Esther had moved from 
Maryland, but he had been unable to find her, 
until he saw the light in the kitchen window and 
met me. 

March 20. — I went to church. Oh, it was 
lovely ! 

March 25. — Aunt Esther says I may be a 
Catholic. She also said that she always knew 
that I’d come to no good, and that the Catholics 
are welcome to me. And remembering the Holy 
Child I did not answer her back. 

When Alice had finished, everybody demanded 
that she should read her brother Bob’s story. 

“ It’s late ! ” she said. 


220 


ST. martin’s summer 


‘‘ Oh, do go on ! ” her listeners exclaimed, and 
so she “ went on,” — 

January 1. — To-day Uncle Fred came and gave 
me this book. It is bound in red. It is a dairy. 
I am to write in it every day regularly. Why 
is it called a dairy ? I have looked in the dic- 
tionary. I suppose it must be called a dairy 
because I must write in it every day, and the 
milkman comes every da 3 ^ I told Uncle Fred 
this. He said that if I kept on I would be a 
great man. I intend to be a great man. Our 
familjT^ is a great family. Papa used to be on 
the Board of Public AVorks. Annie, the servant- 
girl, told me I ought to be thankful for all my 
advantages, but that I needed one. I asked her 
what. She said : “ A good whipping.” 

January 2. — I could hardly wait for morning 
to come, and I awoke three times in the night, 
hoping it would be day, so that I could write 
in this book. It is a diary^ not a dairy. It 
comes for the Latin. It has nothing to do with 
milk. I shall tell the boys at school. They will 
be pleased ; it will improve their minds. I like 
to improve people’s minds. 

January 3. — How good I am to write every 


A PORTENTOUS HINT 


221 


day in my diary ! Mamma says that most boys 
of my age would neglect it. I told the boys 
in our class that a diary isn’t a dairy. They 
laughed, and said they knew it before. I don’t 
believe it. I didn’t know it. Some people hate 
useful information. 

January Y. — I had to skip three days, '^because 
there was company here, and I was afraid to 
miss something if I staid much put of the parlor. 
I heard a great many interesting things, and one 
awful thing that makes me shiver. Another 
reason why 1 have not written is that I found 
a story-book under our bed. It belongs to my 
brother Joe. He wastes his time. Wild horses 
would not bring him to write in a diary every 
day, like me. Joe is two years older than I am ; 
but, as the teacher said to me the other day, 
when I tried to soak up some spilled ink with 
her handkerchief, ^‘age does not give a boy 
sense.” I made up my mind to read this book, 
and to see whether it is fit for him or not. When 
I have read it through, I will take it to Father 
Kodney at the church, and tell him about it, and 
how wicked Joe is to read such books. He will 
be pleased, and perhaps put me on the roll of 


222 


ST. martin’s summer 


honor. Some people find it so hard to be good. 
I don’t. 

While Joe was saying his prayers last night, I 
quietly slipped into the bathroom, and finished 
his book. I really do not see how a boy could 
say his prayers at all after reading a detective 
story. But some boys have no conscience. I 
fell asleep, and papa waked me up. He did not 
notice what book I was reading. For Joe’s sake, 
I would have been sorry. If papa had spanked 
me, I would have been a martyr to duty ; and 
then, after he had made me black and blue, and 
I had bravely suppressed my tears, I should have 
told the truth. How sorry papa would have 
been! Everybody would admire me, and Joe 
would say : “ Why haven’t I a sense of duty like 
my brother?” I wonder what became of old 
Sleuth the detective? And I think Eoline de 
Montmorency marries Ked-headed Dick the bur- 
glar, in the last chapter. But that careless Joe 
has torn the last chapter out. I must hunt it 
up, because I cannot judge of a book until I have 
read it all. Bed-headed Dick’s plot to murder 
his virtuous uncle reminds me of something — 
ha! do I hear a step! I dare not write what 


A PORTENTOUS HINT 


223 


I know. Oh, why, why am I so conscien- 
tious ! 

January 8. — I saw some ghosts in the yard last 
night. Does this protend death ? I have found 
the last chapter of “ Eoline ; or, Ked-headed Dick’s 
Big Diamond : A Tale of Love and Crime.” It 
was wrapped around Joe’s skates. I read it 
going to school. I got five bad marks for inat- 
tention. I thought about Dick and Eoline, and 
about the dynamite explosion, which killed all 
their enemies, and finally united them. I think 
it is a very dangerous book. I wish I knew some- 
body like Eoline. “ Her skin was of the white- 
ness of aliplaster,” the book says ; “ and on her 
ambient cheeks ” — I think it is “ ambient ” — “ the 
lines of the carnation and the harmonica united 
in harmonius toot insemnly. Her voice had a 
far-off sound of twinkling bells when the atmos- 
phere is shaded with the last odors of the blos- 
soms of departing day ” — I cannot remember the 
rest. How wicked must be the boy who would 
neglect his lessons for such fine language ! Poor, 
unhappy Joe ! 

January 9. — There were no ghosts in the yard 
— they were shirts on the line. My heart groans 


224 


ST. martin’s summer 


under the weight of a guilty secret. Ha ! little 
do they dream that I — Annie says there is no 
more marmalade. It must be false. I cannot 
masticate my bread without marmalade. “ The 
heart knoweth its own bitterness,” as Eoline 
said, when old Sleuth the detective accused her 
of forgery. I do not see how Joe could neglect 
his studies for such trash. We built a snow-man 
to-day. The Bleecker Street boys knocked it 
over. We defended it. I seemed to be gay and 
happy, but my heart was heavy with unutterable 
woe. Why am I so clever ? Why do I find out 
things that others kno\v not of? Joe is studj^- 
ing hard while I write this. He expects to read 
“ The Lion of Flanders ” for an hour, if he does 
his sums by half-past seven. Ha I little does he 
dream that I have hidden his pernicious novel, 
and that I am about to read it again just as soon 
as the coast is clear. I must point out its wick- 
edness. There is no place in “ The Lion of Flan- 
ders ” so exciting as the scene in “ Eoline,” where 
the courageous heroine strangles a writhing ser- 
pent in one hand, crushes its companion with the 
other, and holds the Indians at bay with her 
right. I am so glad I preserved this book from 


A PORTENTOUS HINT 


225 


Joe ! It would excite him too much. It might 
have kept him awake at night. I saw ghosts 
again about midnight. But they were only 
clothes on the line. 

January 10 (Saturday). — We skated all day, 
as the ice was good. I can do the figure eight. 
But who can skate under the weight of another’s 
guilt? My left ear was almost frost-bitten. 
Mamma said we should have come in sooner. 
Ha ! little did she dream that I cared naught for 
amusement. I did but skate to hide a nawing 
pain. Can I see murder done and be silent ? I 
will act the part of old Sleuth, and force the vil- 
lain to confess. I see before me the parlor of 
my parents’ mansion — it is a three-story brick 
house, with modern conveniences ; but when we 
are much in earnest we always say ‘‘mansion.” 
In “ Eoline,” when her friend Bertha talks of her 
childhood’s days, she speaks every time of her 
father’s mansion. Mother says that the teacher 
complains of my bad lessons. Lessons ! Ha ! 
little do they dream that the trumpet-blasts of 
duty call me to higher things. I am going to 
ask Teddy McGinniss to swop his pistol for my 
set of dominos. My heart recalls from such 


226 


ST. MAPwTIN’S summer 


childish toys. When I dash the fatal cup from 
my father’s hand, and cry ‘‘ Saved ! ” then they 
will not talk of lessons. After that nobody will 
ever mention geography or history in my hear- 
ing, for fear of hurting my feelings. ’Tis well ! 

January 14. — How can they expect me to 
study ! I have no time. Day by day I learn 
more of the life of that great man. Sleuth the 
detective. He’s the man for my money. I am 
learning from this book — which would have 
weakened Joe’s mind, but only strengthens mine, 
— how to ferret a nerefarious plot to its hidden 
lair. I will begin my narrative. In three hours 
’twill be midnight. At this unearthly hour I 
write my first line of a tale which, if I die, may 
yet prove my monument, greater than any 
marble shaft in the sacred seminaries of the dead. 
But I must pause and dissemble. My parental 
parent demands a pitcher of iced water. Little 
does he dream ! 

January 16. — Father says I cannot join the 
baseball club next spring, although I was pitcher 
of the White Wyes last year. He says that a 
boy who can’t hold his place in his class has no 
business with baseball. He says I walk around 


A POKTENTOUS HINT 


m 


in a day-dream ; he says, too, that I must be read- 
ing dime novels on the sly. I made no answer. 
I had the second part of “ Eoline ’’ in my clothes. 
I felt like the Grecian boy in the story, who had 
a fox nawing, or naughing, or whatever it is, at 
his victuals. Little does he dream that I read it 
from a sense of duty ! I am on the track of a 
nerefarious plot. When I am dead and gone, 
and the daisies grow over me, and the snow falls 
in tiny driblets o’er my prostrate corpse, then 
they will know my value. But enough ! 

January 18. — I was coming home from school, 
thinking of how cleverly the detective rescued 
Eoline — who turned out to be his long-lost sister 
— from the grasp of the villains that pursued her. 
I ran into the little glassware stand, kept by old 
Bridget, and broke a lot of things. I felt that I 
could not afford to pay for anything, because I 
want to buy the whole detective series. How 
attractive such books are to weak minds ! Poor 
Joe ! And yet he will never thank me for saving 
him from this great temptation ! 

January 19. — I read nearly all night. This 
morning I thought out my plan of action. I 
have no doubt that Uncle Fred intends to kill 


228 


ST. martin’s summer 


father for his money. People say father is rich. 
I know that he has a gold watch which must 
have cost a slave’s ransom, or a king’s ransom, as 
they say in the books. The night of Clara’s 
party, when they were acting the charades, I was 
hiding behind the door, when I heard Uncle Fred 
say, with a diabolical laugh : “ Mr. Morris ought 
to die, in fact he must die.” Then somebody else 
laughed, in a way that froze my blood. Mr. 
Morris is father. I felt just as Ralph of the 
Bloody Hand (see Eoline,” page 205) felt when 
he heard that his father was not his father, but 
the father of the lady that had poisoned her own 
sister, by mistake, with a goblet of rattlesnake 
venom, in the sixteenth chapter. I read the pas- 
sage over again, just to feel how I felt. Little 
does Uncle Fred dream that I am on his track ! 
I will watch and dissemble. 

January 23. — I have watched. Clara makes 
the tea at the table every night. But Uncle Fred 
makes nicer tea than Clara, because he manages 
the alcohol lamp better than she does. He will 
be here to-morrow night. He will make the tea. 
He will offer father a cup — I see it all. That cup 
will be poisoned with quinine or some terrible 


A PORTENTOUS HINT 


229 


drug. If I do not dash that cup from my father’s 
lips, we shall all be orphans, and Uncle Fred will 
seize all we possess. It is just like the murder 
that old Sleuth discovered, — a wicked uncle did 
that, I saw Uncle Fred looking at my bicycle 
the other day. I wonder if he intends to kill me, 
too, for that ? There is a sinister look in his 
face. I told Clara so, and she laughed, and said 
I was “a funny boy.” Little does she dream ! 

January 24. — The fatal night approaches. I 
hear Uncle Fred in the parlor. Those words, 
‘‘Mr. Morris must die,” ring through my brain. 
There goes the tea-bell — no, he was not asked to 
make the tea. Clara said she had learned to 
manage the lamp as well as he. Aunt Brown 
was here, and she was surprised to see how gray 
papa has gotten all of a sudden. They talked 
nonsense. Clara has another musical to-night. 
I will run down and see that Uncle Fred does 
not poison the lemonade. I am on his track. I 
will watch as the dying vulture watches the prey 
on which it subsists. Had he handed papa a cup 
of tea, I would have dashed the cup into a thou- 
sand pieces. 

January 27.— I have not cared to write much. 


230 


ST. martin’s summer 


I could not sit still enough. Father has treated 
me in a manner that would have made a bad bo}’' 
run away. He used the handle of my tennis 
racket. I am glad he did not think of the base- 
ball bat. That would have been worse. I hate 
Eoline. I hate old Sleuth the detective. I don’t 
believe there is a word of truth in story books. I 
will never read another. Everybody says I am 
a wicked boy. And Uncle Fred said that “ a 
boy who is bad from a sense of duty, and so con- 
ceited, ought to be spanked.” I am going to tell 
the priest all about it. I wish I had done it be- 
fore. I am going to give him this diary. He 
will understand how hard it is for a boy to have 
a guilty secret in his bosom, and to let a fox 
naw at his victuals. All right ! The musical 
had begun to music when I went down. Aunt 
Brown was playing what they called Chopping’s 
ballad of A Fat Major. There was nothing 
about a fat major in it, — nothing. She didn’t 
sing a word. She thumped the piano, and softly 
touched the squeaky keys, and made wriggling 
noises. When I thought there was a tune, why, 
all of a sudden there wasn’t any ! After the 
thing was done. Uncle Fred gave her some lemon- 


A PORTENTOUS HINT 


231 


ade. And then he gave papa a glass. My heart 
stood still. (I don’t know whether it did or not, 
but it sounds well to say so.) I rushed for my 
stool. I dashed the glass from my father’s hand. 
The lemonade spilled all over Uncle Fred’s shirt- 
front, and I said, with an eagle-like glance, 
“ Villain, desist ! ” 

Father looked at me stern-like. The next 
thing I knew I was up in the sitting-room, with 
him and mamma and Uncle Fred. “ Forgive me 
for my precepipation,” I said, calmly ; “ but your 
life is saved ! ” ‘‘ ITow,” said father, “ I want 

you to talk like a sensible boy, not like an idiot. 
What does all this mean ? ” I said then that I 
did not want Uncle Fred sent to jail, but that I 
must tell the truth. Clara came in just then, 
very much frightened. I told what I had heard. 
You could have cut the silence with a penknife 
when I finished. Father looked puzzled. Sud- 
denly Uncle Fred and Clara laughed. Oh, my ! ’’ 
they said. “ Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” Father took the 
tennis racket in his hand, but I wasn’t frightened. 
I said : “ I have unmasked the villain ! ” And 

then, papa asked them what they meant by 
laughing ; but they laughed so much they could 


232 


ST. martin’s summer 


not answer. Papa held me by the jacket tight. 
That must have been the way the Spartan boy’s 
father held him before they found out how heroic 
he was, to let the fox eat his victuals. But there 
was no tennis racket in those days. I wish they 
had never been invented. 

At last Uncle Fred said : “ It’s all a mistake. 
The poor boy’s been reading too many dime 
novels. The other night somebody said that 
you ” — he spoke to papa — “ were getting very 
gray: that your beard was as white as Kriss 
Kingle’s. Then I said : ‘ Mr. Morris ought to 

dye — he must dye.’ Oh, m}^ ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” 
He laughed like a sill}^ thing. When grown-up 
people are foolish, they are foolish, and no mis- 
take. Clara shrieked out, “ Dye ! ” and laughed 
again. Father smiled a little, and asked what 
books I had been reading. I told him, and I 
gave my reason for keeping “ Eoline ” out of 
Joe’s way. That such boy has such a weak 
mind ! When I had finished, father made me get 
the books. He burned them. Then he felt the 
handle of the racket, and asked me whether I 
would take them at once or wait till morning. I 
said I would wait. I was not anxious for morning 


A PORTENTOUS HINT 


233 


to come. Clara cried ; but it made no difference. 
Uncle Fred said he wished I was a good boy like 
Joe. Like Joe ! It was worse than father’s 
spanking to hear that. 

January 30. — I went down to see the priest. 
He understands boys. I’ll talk to him after this, 
instead of writing in this diary. No more detect- 
ive books for me ! If I had not been so strong- 
minded, they might have made a burglar of me. 
But I’ll say this : if there should be real poison- 
ing going anywhere, I shall not be the one to 
stop it. Grown-up people ought to know enough 
to take care of themselves. What with Algebra 
and Object Lessons, I shall not have time to look 
after them. Good-bye I " 


234 : 


ST. maetin’s summer 


XXY 

THE GUNPOWDER 

Jeffreys and the young people became better 
friends every day. Mr. Kichards, whose recovery 
was very slow, spent most of his time in reading 
Uncle Will’s play, “ Arden’s Kosary,” which he 
seemed to like very much. 

Jeffreys told Jimmy a great many things about 
himself. He spoke of his hardships when a boy 
in Maine. He told him that he had gone to Hew 
York on board a schooner, and had shipped again 
from that city ; and he said that he hoped no 
friend of his would ever go to sea. “ That fellow 
Bernard likes to listen to sea yarns. He is never 
tired of them. You just disgust him as much as 
possible. Don’t let him read dime novels, or 
he’ll be ruined before he is able to reason like a 
man. It was dime novels that sent me to sea. 
It means hard work, hard knocks, and bad lan- 
guage.” 

After a time Jeffreys confided to Jimmy that 


THE GUNPOWDER 


235 


he did not like priests or Catholics. Jimmy 
laughed. It seemed so queer. Elise came up to 
the parsley plot just then, and asked what they 
were talking about. Jimmy made no answer. 
Jeffreys turned around and said sharply that he 
disliked priests and Catholics, and that he wasn’t 
ashamed of it. 

“Well, you ought to be,” answered Elise, 
whom prosperity was beginning to enliven a 
little. 

“ Why ought I to be ? ” demanded the old 
sailor. 

“Because you are ignorant and bigoted,” ex- 
claimed Elise, her color rising. “Because you 
are without sense enough to understand anything. 
Of course there are a great many low people who 
are Catholics ; but if you ever come to Thorny- 
dale you will see that there are many Catholics 
there, like ourselves and the Watsons, who are 
quite in society.” 

“And how about Jimmy here?” asked Jeff- 
reys, with a twinkle in his eye. 

Elise assumed one of her old airs. It was so 
“ queenly ” that Alice, who had been doing good 
work all the morning among the red spiders in a 


236 


ST. martin’s summer 


plot near by, was, as she would have expressed it, 
“ obliged to laugh.” 

Alice joined the group. 

Elise turned to her. “ Mr. Jeffreys,” she said, 
“ is finding fault with us Catholics. I have been 
telling him that he has a very wrong idea of us. 
He seems to think that we are all low and en- 
tirely without social position ” 

“ I don’t know anything about ‘ social posi- 
tion,’ ” interrupted Jeffreys, taking off his cap 
and wiping his forehead with a large red silk 
handkerchief ; for he began to feel embarrassed, 
and wished he had held his tongue ; “ but I think 
Jimmy Brogan’s the best of you, for all that.” 

‘‘ Jimmy’s very well,” said Elise, forgetting her 
good resolutions. “ Of course we associate with 
him on equal terms here, but in Thornydale it is 
different. Jimmy’s only a milk-boy there.” 

Dick shook his fist behind Elise’s back. Jimmy 
wished something would happen. 

“ Give me Jimmy ! ” said Jeffreys. “ There’s 
no Bloody Mary about him ! ” 

Elise lost her temper entirely. “ And no 
Henry YIII about me ! ” she cried. “ We didn’t 
murder priests and nuns I ” 


THE GUNPOWDER 


237 


“ It’s a lie ! ” returned Jeffreys, mopping his 
forehead. His history was a little hazy; he, 
however, had some remembrance of Bible history. 
“ Who murdered Moses in the bulrushes ? ” he 
demanded, triumphantly. 

“ Martin Luther ! ” responded Bernard, who 
had been listening, and who could not resist join- 
ing the fray. 

Jeffreys grew redder in the face. Elise faced 
him, ready to continue the battle, waving Ber- 
nard away with one hand. They were both 
thoroughly excited. 

I don’t know much about history, but I do 
know that — that — well, I won’t say, just because 
Jimmy Brogan’s a Catholic. But as for you. Miss 
Thorndyke, you ought to be ashamed to quarrel 
with an old man like me. If I had the education 
you pretend to have, I shouldn’t talk like you. 
Your priests can’t be what some of your people 
say they are, if you are the best Christian they 
make.” 

Elise was abashed by this. She walked away 
silently. She knew she had been harsh with the 
old man. What would Father Eeardon have told 
her ? To be gentle ; to be meek ; not to return 


238 


ST. martin’s summer 


accusation for accusation. She walked over to 
Mr. Kichards. He was asleep under an impro- 
vised umbrella made of sailcloth. A book had 
fallen from his hand. Elise picked it up; turn- 
ing the pages nervously, she saw these passages : 

“ It is oftentimes a small thing that casts me 
down and troubles me. 

“ I make a resolution to behave myself val- 
iantly, but when a small temptation comes I am 
brought into great straits.” 

Elise closed the book. She asked herself why 
it was that Jimmy Brogan seemed to be^uch a 
favorite. Even her own brother preferred his 
society to hers. He had been “ nobody ” in her 
set at Thornydale, but at sea he was “every- 
body.” Why ? Because he was kind and honest 
and good ; because he made Father Keardon’s 
instructions his rule of life ; because he did every- 
thing he could for others, not thinking of himself. 
And here she, Elise Thorndyke, with all her apt- 
ness in controversy, had been made a reproach on 
the cause she was defending, because — and she 
admitted it — she had given way to pride and ill- 
temper. 

“Jimmy,” said Jeffreys, looking after Elise, 


THE GUNPOWDER 


239 


“I never hated Catholics so much as I do 
now.” 

Jimmy went on with his work. He could see 
that Elise had done much mischief. But he saw 
no means of remedying it. 

Jeffreys was gruff all the afternoon. He sat 
on a rock and watched the boys work. He 
grumbled about the rheumatism, and made them 
wheel ten or eleven barrels from one cave to an- 
other when they were almost too tired to stand ; 
for the task of looking carefully after each plant 
was not an easy one. 

“Handle those barrels carefully,” he said, 
crossly ; “ there is gunpowder in them.” 

You may imagine how well Jimmy and Dick 
obeyed this injunction. 

Tired as they were, the boys said the rosary 
before they went to bed. 

“ Stop that gibberish ! ” Jeffreys yelled — he had 
turned into his couch. 

The boys went on in a lower tone. 

This did not satisfy Jeffreys. He called out 
again : “ Ain’t you tired enough to go to 

bed? Jump in there, and stop your non- 
sense ! ” 


240 


ST. maktin’s summer 


“ We’ll jump out and find a place somewhere 
else, if you keep on,” said Dick. 

“We are saying our prayers,” added Jimmy. 
“ We’ve worked hard enough for you to-day to 
have earned that privilege, at least.” 

Jeffreys said no more. He watched the young 
people. He was impressed by their observance 
of their religious duties, though he grumbled. 
Every Sunday morning Dick read aloud the 
prayers for mass. Jeffreys stood aloof, outwardly 
contemptuous, but inwardly admiring. He was 
almost conquered one day when Elise came to 
him and begged his pardon. 

“ If I had followed Father Keardon’s instruc- 
tions — he’s our priest, you know, — I should not 
have behaved so disrespectfully and hatefully to 
you the other day. You mustn’t think that our 
priests teach us anything that is not good.” 

Jeffreys grunted, but he gave Elise the first 
ripe bunch of grapes of the season. 

Jeffreys continued to watch them all. One 
Sunday, a few days before a steamer was ex- 
pected, he asked Jimmy to take a walk. This 
meant that Jimmy should support him as he hob- 
bled along. 


THE GUNPOWDER 


241 


“ I take back what I said about your religion,” 
he began. “ I don’t care anything about history, 
or whether Bloody Mary murdered Moses or not ; 
but I can see that you are good children, and I 
can see, too, that your religion keeps you straight. 
I don’t know how it is with other people, but if I 
have to choose between an old duffer like Martin 
Luther whom I didn’t know, and a good Catholic 
like you whom I do, I choose the man I know. 
If Martin said a Church was bad that makes 
young people good, then Martin lied, — that’s all ! 
An ounce of good example is worth a hundred 
pounds of argument. When I see a Christian 
a-lying and a-swearing and a-raising rows, I don’t 
feel much inclined to let him talk me down, — 
that’s all ! ” 

This was very pleasant and unexpected to 
Jimmy. He began at once to explain Catholic 
belief to Jeffreys, who listened with great in- 
terest. 

After a while Jeffreys interrupted his in- 
structor. ‘‘ Look here, boy,” he said ; “ I want 
to tell you a secret. I know where one of Mr. 
Drew’s rafts is.” 

Jimmy stared at him in amazement. 


242 


ST. martin’s summer 


“Yes, I do. There was an awful storm one 
night, and the water rose so high that the raft 
was thrown clear over the rocks on the east side, 
into the quiet water. But the question is now : 
How to get it out again. If a steamer comes the 
raft will probably be broken up. If you can 
find any way of getting it out, it’s yours ; you 
can claim Mr. Drew’s reward. How that I know 
more about Catholics, I am not afraid of playing 
into the devil’s hands by making you rich. But 
as the raft is inside a wall of rock, I don’t see 
what good it can do you.” 

Jimmy’s eyes sparkled. He thought a moment 
and then asked : “ Didn’t you say there was gun- 
powder in those kegs ? ” 


THE TIGER 


243 


XXYI 

THE TIGER 

“Gunpowder, of course,” answered Jeffreys; 
“ but what has that to do with the raft ? ” 

Jimmy was a boy, and he felt very much of a 
boy when Jeffreys asked this question in such a 
doubtful tone. 

“ I thought,” he stammered a little, — “ well,” 
he continued, “I may as well tell you that I 
thought the gunpowder might be used for blow- 
ing away some of the rocks ; and if that were 
done we could float the raft out, and get the 
steamer to tow it to shore.” 

Jeffreys chuckled. “ Just to think of it ! ” he 
said. Then he chuckled again. “You’ve more 
sense than most land-lubbers. Jim Barlow never 
thought of that. He was my chum here for a 
while. And when he was going away I thought 
I’d just give him that raft if he had gumption 
enough to get it out ; but he hadn’t. Bless you ! 
he wasn’t smart. I saw there wasn’t much in 


24:4 


ST. martin’s summer 


him after he was here a while. He was the kind 
of sailor that would blow his gaff on a man ; he’d 
shirk his grog,” cried the old sailor, growing 
warmer ; “ he’d steal out of the menarvUn 
basket ! ” 

Jimmy tried to feel impressed by these awful 
revelations. Jeffreys fixed him with his eyes, as 
if to watch him grow pale and tremble at the 
enormity of Jim Barlow’s deeds. 

“ He went off with my best pipe, and an over- 
coat that I hadn’t had on for more than eleven 
years. It was almost as good as new. But he 
couldn’t take the raft. He hadn’t sense enough 
for that.” 

It was not until a day or two after this con- 
versation that Jeffreys had time to return to the 
subject of the raft. With advancing fall the 
vegetables required more attention, and even Mr. 
Kichards was called in to keep the red spider at 
a distance. Elise was obliged to leave her novel, 
and she began to find pleasure in work, though 
it was tiresome at first. The crop of onions was 
her especial care. It would be ready by the time 
the steamer came. And she took as much pleas- 
ure in it as she had taken in her novels. 


THE TIGER 


245 


Alice, working quietly in her garden patch 
thought more than she had ever before in her 
life. How anxious she had been about parties 
and dresses and all kinds of trifles at Thorny- 
dale ! She remembered how she had plagued 
poor Aunt Susan for a new white frock in the 
summer, because Elise had one ; she remembered 
how angry she had been because Mrs. Esmond 
asked Elise to pour out the tea, when she had 
come in first. How important all these things 
had seemed to her ! She remembered how often 
she had neglected going to confession because 
she wanted to take a walk or go out to tea, or 
because she was tired. Kow, far from a church 
or priest, she longed ardently to perform those 
religious acts which were at once duties and con- 
solations. She used to say sometimes that she 
hated Saturday because it was confession day. 
She thought over this now, and made heartfelt 
prayers that she might live to make up for her 
callousness by the fervor of her confessions and 
Communions. 

During the long hours spent among the plants 
Alice became a better and gentler girl. The 
blessed meaning which contented and quiet work 


246 


ST. martin’s summer 


bears for hearts capable of understanding it came 
to her. When the sun was hot, and she was 
tempted to stop looking under the leaves of the 
vegetables for the destructive spider, she remem- 
bered how the Blessed Child Jesus had worked 
for St. Joseph in the little garden before the 
house at JSTazareth- She had seen a picture of it, 
and so thoroughly did this tender thought fill 
her mind that she drew on a little card the pic- 
ture as she remembered it. Jeffreys admired it 
very much. It represented a little house in a 
garden of flowers. Under a palm-tree was the 
Holy Child sawing a plank. Hear Him stood 
St. Joseph watching Him, “ for fear,” Kose said, 
“ that He might cut His fingers.” The Blessed 
Virgin sat with her spinning-wheel near a rose 
bush. Alice drew this on the back of an Easter 
card she found in her satchel. Bernard and Rose 
and Jeffreys examined it carefully. It was not 
very correct in drawing, but they did not trouble 
themselves about that. 

“ It’s too bad that our dear Lord was so much 
alone,” said Rose. 

“We’re His brothers and sisters,” answered 
Bernard. “ He didn’t want anybody but us.” 


THE TIGER 


24:7 


‘‘ That’s true,” put in Jeffreys ; “ and I like to 
hear you young folk say it. Somehow, I never 
felt the God-Man to be so real until I heard you 
talk about Him. Why, one would think He was 
with you every day ! ” 

“ Well, He is, I hope,” said Alice, turning with 
a smile. 

Jeffreys smoked his pipe in silence after this, 
tilting back his chair, and fixing his eyes on 
Alice’s card. Elise, watching him, had her 
thoughts too. Why was it, she asked herself, 
that Jeffreys seemed so much touched by that 
little picture when he had resented all her at- 
tempts at controversy ? After some thought she 
came to the conclusion that she had been trying 
“ to show off ” her historical knowledge, and that 
it was anger at Jeffreys rather than a desire to 
convert him which had induced her to make her 
onslaught on him. 

Elise, who drew better than Alice, made a 
series of pictures of the life of our Lord. And 
Alice supplemented them with the Stations of 
the Cross. Alfred proposed that they should 
have the prayers of the Stations every night for 
their deliverance. 


248 


ST. maetin’s summer 


The first night Dick, who was the best reader, 
undertook to lead. Alice put the picture of each 
Station in front of the candle as Dick read. 
Jeffreys’ eyes became moist before they finished. 
When Dick had reached the last Station, Jeffreys 
had turned his face to the wall. The children 
pretended not to notice it. After a time the old 
sailor said : 

“ Your religion is very real. I never felt God 
to be so near.” 

Kose ran over to the old man, and put her 
arms around his neck. 

“ Nobody ever told me how He suffered be- 
fore,” he said, in a hoarse voice. “ If one of 
your priests ever comes this way I want to see 
him. It’s all right to talk, though,” he added. 
“ I’m not sure that talk is all.” 

Jeffreys looked at Elise. Eose intuitively 
guessed his thought ; and Elise had a guilty con- 
sciousness that the old man had been disedified 
by her example. Jeffreys seemed to be settling 
into gloom again, and Elise suffered very much. 
It might be possible that she was keeping Jef- 
freys away from the light ! There was silence. 

“ Oh,” said Eose, — she had been trying to 


THE TIGER 


249 


think of something that would brighten Jeffreys 
and restore his cheerfulness, “do let me tell a 
story.” 

She blushed very much, — only the need of the 
occasion forced her to come forward in this way. 

“ It’s a story about people who were made bet- 
ter by their religion. I heard it from mother, 
and Uncle Will taught me how to tell it. He 
always said that a nice story should be told as 
well as one could tell it, and this is a nice story. 
Shall I tell it?” 

Jeffreys, smiled and nodded. Elise seemed 
pleased, and Eose began : 

Grace and Bianca were cousins. Grace was a 
little American girl. Bianca was born in Italy ; 
her mother was an American, who had married 
an Italian. Bianca had, so far, always lived in 
Florence. But when her father died, her mother 
came with her to Hew York. To help Bianca 
learn English, and to prevent her from being al- 
together idle (for Bianca was lazy). Miss O’Heill 
went every day to talk to Bianca, and to teach 
her music. 

Her mother taught her Christian doctrine and 
history when Miss O’Heill had gone. After 


250 


ST. martin’s summer 


that, Grace Brown — whose lessons were over, 
too, about that time — came to spend the rest of 
the day with her little cousin. 

Grace’s mother was a widow, and a very sad 
one. She could see no contentment, much less 
happiness, in life, because her husband was dead. 
She wept frequently, and often said that if Grace 
had been a boy she would have been more of a 
consolation to her ; a girl could never grow up to 
be like the father, but in a boy she would have 
seen him over again. 

Grace’s home was very cheerless. She seemed 
to be always under a cloud. Two years had 
passed since her father died, and sometimes she 
Avanted to laugh or play like other children, but 
her mother always said, “ Hush ! ” The piano 
had not been opened for two years ; the singing 
canary birds had been sent away; and Mrs. 
Brown’s parlor and sitting-room were so gloomy 
and so cold that a funeral procession might have 
entered them on any day and seemed part of 
their ordinary arrangements. 

It was not strange that Grace liked to run 
over to Bianca’s house. Mrs. Lodi believed it 
part of a Christian’s duty to make life cheerful. 


THE TIGER 


251 


She often told her sister that it was selfish for 
her to indulge her grief, that her duty in the 
present was to make life pleasant for Grace, and 
to allow her all the proper amusements and 
occupations of girls of her age. But Mrs. Brown 
generally wept, and called her sister cruel, and 
the gloom settled down darker than before. 

Bianca had not been in New York long. She 
did not know the ways of the city. The elevated 
railroad was still an object of admiration to her, 
and the trains clattering along with wonderful 
speed terrified her. She had been down-town 
once; but a glimpse of Broadway at noon, with 
its hurrying people and entanglement of omni- 
buses, carts, trucks, wagons, carriages, had 
frightened her. She never wanted to go down- 
town again. 

Grace liked the bustle of the city. A ride in 
the “ L ’’ or a jaunt across the bridge was con- 
sidered a great treat by her. But her mother 
seldom let her leave the house, except to go over 
to Bianca’s. 

Bianca’s mother had rented a tall, narrow 
house near Central Park, and the two little girls 
saw as much as they wanted of the green fields 


252 


ST. maetin’s summer 


and trees. They could fill their baskets with 
early violets, dandelions, daisies, buttercups, and 
clover-blossoms, from April until November. 
Grace, being a true city child, did not care for 
country pleasures, except for a little while. 
Alida, an old Italian woman, went with them to 
the park. Many a time Grace begged that she 
would take them into the city crowds. But 
Alida always shook her long gold earrings and 
shrugged her shoulders. 

- “ The signora would not permit it,” she said. 

Grace sighed, and wondered whether the time 
would come when she could wear a white frock 
like Bianca’s, and ride in omnibuses and see all 
the city sights. 

I should be afraid, cara mia ! ” said Bianca. 
“ Your streets are so dreadful ! One may be 
killed by the wild horses. I love the quiet park 
better.” 

Grace smiled. “ Oh, Bianca ! do you forget 
the policemen ? When I was down-town with 
mother, the policeman carried me across the 
street. The policeman stops the horses just as 
they are going to tread on you. You see a big 
horse coming, and you want to run, and then the 


THE TIGER 


253 


policeman just speaks to the horse, and the horse 
stops, and you get across ! And there are 
flowers for sale on the corners. / think it is 
lovely ! ” 

“ I don’t,” said Bianca. “ I would rather see the 
flowers growing in the earth than cut off their 
stems. But, O Grace ! I am going to surprise 
mother and Father Sebastian on Corpus Christi. 
I’ll tell you all about it.” 

Grace's face clouded. Since Bianca had come, 
several new causes of discontent had made them- 
selves plain to her. Grace’s mother was not a 
Catholic. She was very fond of Catholics, she 
said, and she believed nearly all that the Catholic 
Church teaches. But when Bianca’s mother 
talked to her, she always said she could not 
accept the doctrine which acknowledges Our 
Blessed Lady as the Mother of God. Some day, 
perhaps, she would enter the Church ; but not 
just now. 

Grace had often gone to mass with Alida and 
Bianca, and had listened to instructions from 
Father Sebastian. When Bianca put flowers 
before Our Lady’s statue every day in May, and 
sang the sweet May hymns in the morning, 


254 ST. martin’s summer 

Grace, listening, felt as if she had been deprived 
of something that ought to have belonged to her. 
One day she had said to her mother : 

“ Isn’t the Blessed Virgin my mother, too? If 
she is the mother of all Christians, she must be 
my mother. Why don’t you teach me to love 
her ? ” 

Mrs. Brown seemed startled. Then she said : 

Hush ! Grace, you don’t know what you’re 
talking about.” 

Grace said wistfully : “ I wish I did, mother. 
Can’t you tell me ? ” 

Mrs. Brown shook her head, and resumed her 
occupation of writing a letter on a sheet of paper 
with an unusually wide black border. 

So when Bianca mentioned Corpus Christi with 
so much delight and expectation, a cloud covered 
Grace’s face. She knew what the grand Feast 
of Corpus Christi meant ; she had heard her aunt 
many times describe the Feast of Corpus Christi 
in Italian cities. She felt as if she had seen the 
narrow streets carpeted with roses, and the walls 
of the houses hung with gay curtains ; the 
gorgeous canopy upheld by the principal inhab- 
itants of the town ; the clouds of incense ; and 


THE TIGER 


255 


the groups of men, women and children kneeling 
before our Lord. She knew, too, 'that Bianca 
intended to help Father Sebastian to make the 
feast a grand one in his little city church. It 
seemed to Grace as if she were always ‘‘left 
out.” There was so much brightness in Bianca’s 
life and so little in hers. 

Of course Bianca did not know Grace’s 
thoughts. She often said it was a great pity that 
Grace could not go to mass every day, and have 
a rosary ; but she was too happy herself to un- 
derstand that Grace was discontented. Besides, 
she was only a little girl yet, and little girls do 
not think much. 

Bianca had five dollars in her “ bank.” This 
“ bank ” was a tin box painted red, with a 
chimney, into which the money was dropped. 
Bianca had given all the five-cent pieces, quar- 
ters, etc., — the savings of a whole year, — to her 
mother, and her mother had returned to her a 
new five-dollar bill. Bianca had thought and 
thought about this crisp, new bill. "What would 
she do with it ? At first, she thought she would 
give one dollar to Father Sebastian for the poor 
Italian children, and buy a music roll like 


256 


ST. martin’s summer 


Grace’s for herself— a beautiful morocco roll, 
with “ B. L.” printed on it in big letters— and a 
bangle ring. Grace always had a number of new 
pretty things, while Bianca had to make hers 
last as long as possible. Bianca finally de- 
cided to spend her five dollars in honor of our 
Lord. Alida had discovered over in Brooklyn 
a friend of hers, a Genoese, who had a hot- 
house. 

‘‘We will go ov^er and see the good Giuseppe 
some day,” said Alida. “ He sells his flowers 
much more cheap than those we have to buy in 
New York. You will ask the signora for some 
money, and we will get a bunch as big as a 
basket for almost nothing.” 

Bianca found that she could not get as many 
roses as she wanted for her five dollars. She 
had imagined that this vast sum would buy 
enough to carpet the whole nave of the church. 
But it was soon plain to her that she could get 
only six dozen of small pink and yellow roses. 
She wanted at least two hundred red ones, be- 
cause her mother told her that red was the color 
of the Sacred Heart. Bemembering Alida’s sug- 
gestion about the Italian in Brooklyn, Bianca 


THE TIGER 257 

spoke to her of her plan to surprise Father Sebas- 
tian and her mother. 

“ Will he give me two hundred roses for five 
dollars ? ’’ she asked, — “ two hundred red roses ? ’’ 
“Four hundred,” answered Alida; “as many 
as we can carry. The good Giuseppe is pious, 
and he kept his houses well warmed during the 
cold spell, while some of his neighbors let their 
fires go out. He has many, many roses.” 

Bianca clapped her hands. “ Will you take us 
to him this afternoon — Grace and me ? ” 

“ Willingly,” answered Alida, anxious for the 
trip. “Will you ask the signora ?” 

And Alida ran off to iron her best cap in an- 
ticipation of the event. Mrs. Lodi, who trusted 
Alida very much, gave her consent, and also 
agreed to ask her sister to let Grace go too. It 
happened that while Bianca was enthusiastically 
kissing her mother in gratitude, Mrs. Brown was 
announced. She was attired in a heavy mourn- 
ing gown and bonnet as usual. Poor Grace, also 
in black, looked very hot and uncomfortable, 
smothered in black crape. 

“ Ah ! ” said Mrs. Brown, sitting down in a big 
armchair, “ you are so light-hearted ! I heard 


258 


ST. martin’s summer 


you and Bianca laughing the moment the door 
opened. You cannot understand what grief is. 
I am always crushed, heart-broken.” 

“Why shouldn’t I be light-hearted? I have 
just come from confession. To-morrow is the 
Feast of Corpus Christi. Bianca has been very 
good, and I have just made her very happy.” 

“But,” said Mrs. Brown, reproachfully, “you 
have lost your dear husband.” 

“Don’t say ‘lost,’” said Mrs. Lodi, hastily. 
“ He is safe ; he waits for me. I pray for him 
every day, and I know he prays for me.” 

“ Oh, mother ! ” broke in Grace, “ I wish we 
could pray for father’s soul, instead of wearing 
this heavy black stuff.” 

“ And don’t you pray for him ? ” cried Bianca, 
with wide-open eyes. “If I did not pray for 
my dear father I would be as mournful as — 
as ” Bianca stopped and reddened. 

“ I am a Protestant, Bianca ; so is Grace,” said 
her aunt, severely. 

“But are not Protestants Christians?” asked 
Bianca ; “ all Christians ” 

“My dear sister,” interrupted Mrs. Brown, 
“Bianca is pert. I shall insist on an apology 


THE TIGER 


269 


if she continues to talk in that way. Because 
you have chosen to desert the Church of your 
forefathers, there is no reason why I should be 
compelled to listen to impertinence from your 
child.” 

Mrs. Lodi smiled. “Alice,” she said, “three 
hundred years ago our forefathers prayed for the 
dead. In fact, I have returned to the faith of 
my forefathers, as you will do, I hope.” 

“You Catholics are very frivolous and light. 
But do not let us quarrel before the chil- 
dren.” 

Alida took Bianca and Grace into the park, 
and there Bianca unfolded her plan. They were 
to get the roses in Brooklyn ; then they were to 
put them into the big gilded straw basket, lined 
with white satin, which Bianca had brought from 
Italy. Then they were to carry the basket full 
of the most lovely red roses to the altar early on 
Corpus Christ! and leave them before the Blessed 
Sacrament. 

“ Oh, how nice ! ” cried Grace, all aglow. “ I 
hope mother will let me do it.” 

“But you must not tell my mother,” said 
Bianca; “because I want to see how surprised 


260 


ST. martin’s summer 


she will be when she recognizes the basket and 
says : ‘ Where did 'you get the roses ? ’ ” 

When Alida took the children home, they 
found Mrs. Brown in a very pleasant mood. Her 
sister understood her, and took much trouble to 
please her. She gave her consent to Grace’s 
going to Brooklyn with Alida in the afternoon. 

Grace and Bianca sat smiling on either side of 
Alida, in one of the comfortable cars which glide 
across the Brooklyn Bridge. Alida had on a 
snowy cap and her longest pair of gold earrings. 
Bianca was a little frightened when the car 
started, but its easy motion soon reconciled her 
to the fact that she was riding high above the 
roofs of houses, and higher still above the crowded 
steamers in the river. 

When they started, the sky and river were 
gray, — there was grayness everywhere. But all 
at once the sun sent clouds flying right and left, a 
quick blow came from the south, the river broke 
thousands of silver sparks, and shafts of golden 
light shot from the rifts of blue in the sky. 
Alida carefully tied up her fat, faded umbrella, 
and regretted that she had brought it with her. 

Grace was ejjger to point out places of interest 


THE TIGER 


261 


to her friend. She knew the name of the church, 
the cross of which glowed on the right. There 
was Governor’s Island. Could Grace catch a 
glimpse of the bay ? That was a Cunard 
steamer passing under them. This was a 
Brooklyn ferryboat entering a slip, loaded to 
the rails. By and by they came to the Brooklyn 
end of the bridge. There was Fulton Street! 
How strange the roofs looked under them ! 
Bianca, holding tight to her clean five-dollar bill, 
forgot her horror of city sights, in the interest of 
all this delightful trip. 

It is like the story of the ‘ Seven League Boots,’ 
and the wonderful carpet on which the prince 
stepped, and which carried him wherever he 
wanted to go ! ” she cried, as they went down the 
steps of the Brooklyn exit. “ But I am so glad I 
am on dry land again ! ” Grace laughed. 

Alida had some trouble in finding the street 
car she needed to take, in order to reach her 
friend’s hot-house. Bianca clung to her hand ; 
but Grace, to show her unconcern, stopped to buy 
a little bunch of heliotrope from a small boy. A 
policeman — Grace believed that policemen could 
get anybody out of trouble — set Alida right, and 


262 ST. martin’s summer 

they started again on their journey, seated in an 
open car. 

The air was soft, yet a little fresh, and the 
children having divided their bunch of heliotrope, 
began to feel as if life was a delightful thing in- 
deed. 

Grace had forgotten her black dress, and the 
impropriety of being glad. The journey was 
long, but the children enjoyed every inch of it. 
They speculated on the characters of the people 
that got in and out of the car. They passed a 
church. There was a cross on it ; but Bianca was 
not sure whether it was a Catholic church or not, 
until she saw that the car conductor raised his 
hat. She watched him, for she said he looked 
like a Catholic. 

On they went, until at last Alida gave the sig- 
nal, and the conductor helped them out of the 
car. They found themselves in front of Giusep- 
pe’s greenhouse. A number of rustic baskets, 
half hidden in ivy, adorned the front of it. Back 
stretched a long garden, in which hardier plants 
were set out. The children exclaimed with de- 
light as they entered the damp, warm atmosphere 
of the place. Around them and before them 


THE TIGER 


263 


stretched a big table strewn with masses of 
red Jacqueminot roses — “Jacks,” as Giuseppe 
called them. Around the sides of the green- 
house were rows of rose plants in bud and 
flower. At the table two men were engaged 
in assorting the roses and making them into 
various forms. 

Giuseppe, a dark, stalwart Italian, showed two 
rows of white teeth as he saw Alida. He shook 
hands with Bianca and Grace, and told them that 
they might roam through the place, and take as 
many roses as they wanted. Alida and he in- 
stantly plunged into animated conversation about 
old days in Italy. 

Bianca and Grace took advantage of Giuseppe’s 
permission and explored every nook of the green- 
house and garden. Giuseppe was very amiable. 
“ It is well,” he said to Bianca, “ it is well that 
you love our Lord so much. I will send you 
seven hundred ‘Jacks’ for Corpus Christi. That 
will make a magnificent mass of color.” 

Bianca made many exclamations of gratitude 
in Italian. But Giuseppe continued : “ It is 

nothing. The warm time will soon come, when 
I shall have to sell ‘ Jacks ’ for a cent a piece. 


264 : 


ST. maktin’s summer 


Two weeks from now, I shall be able to give you 
a thousand roses for five dollars.” 

“ But in two weeks Corpus Christi will have 
passed ! Oh, you are so kind ! ” 

Giuseppe was very much pleased, and he 
promised to make one of his men start off 
early for New York, with the roses: Bianca 
giving him instructions as to the exact time 
in the morning she wanted to receive them. 

Giuseppe and Alida forgot all about the chil- 
dren. Had Giovanni Dartari come to America ? 
Was the son of old Ventura still a singer in the 
Pope’s choir at Eome ? Was it true that Vit- 
torio Fretti had drawn an unlucky number in the 
conscription ? And so on. Alida and Giuseppe 
had both much to ask and to answer. 

Bianca and Grace became somewhat tired of 
the moist, warm air of the hot-house. They saw 
at the end of the garden a little gate, which led 
to a back street. The gate was unbolted, and 
they opened it. A pleasant little street, with 
few houses in it, but stretches of soft green field 
and swelling tree-leaves, stretched before them. 
The sunshine flickered so cheerfully through the 
elm-branches that Bianca and Grace thouffht it 


THE TIGER 


265 


would be nice to walk along this street, which 
seemed so much like a country lane. 

Here and there, in the tender green grass near 
the sidewalk, were golden dandelions, and in one 
place a violet. The girls passed a boy sitting on 
a fence and sucking a robin’s egg. Grace told 
him he ought to be ashamed of himself to kill 
robins, and steal their eggs. 

The boy grinned. “ You ain’t any better than 
I am,” he said ; “ you’ve both got little birds in 
your hats. How did they get there, I’d like to 
know, if they weren’t killed ? ” And he laughed. 

The girls all at once felt ashamed of the small 
black birds which Alida had pinned in their hats. 

The boy laughed, and when the girls asked 
him which way they ought to turn to get back 
to the green-house, he smiled a triumphant smile, 
and declined to answer. 

“ I would not coax him,” said Grace, with an 
air of dignity. “He is very impolite.” 

The boy danced a double shuffle, and began to 
sing, “ I’m a dude ! ” 

Bianca was shocked. “Your boys are very 
rude here,” she said ; “ in Italy the people are all 
very polite.” 


266 


ST. martin’s summer 


Grace rather resented this. It seemed like a 
reproach on the Americans."^ But with “that 
horrid boy ” grinning at her she could say noth- 
ing. 

The girls walked on with great dignity. When 
they reached the end of the street, where it was 
lost in an open field, they did not know where to 
go. They stood still, very much puzzled. Sud- 
denly their bewilderment gave way to another 
feeling. In the field, lying on the tender grass, 
was a little child, blue-eyed, golden-haired, plump, 
^ and crying at the top of its voice. In one hand 
was clasped a bunch of dandelions; the other hit 
violently. Near it was a perambulator, over- 
turned. The cause of this disorder was not far 
off. It was a goat — a grizzled and malicious- 
looking goat — by the expression of whose eyes it 
was plain that he knew what he had done. 

Grace ran forward and caught the little child 
in her arms. It stopped crying, and put its head 
against her shoulder. Bianca smoothed the curly 
locks, and said : “ What is your name ? ” 

“ Mary,” murmured the sweet little voice. 

“ What shall we do ? ” the children asked. 
“ Where is the baby’s mother ? ” 


THE TIGER 


267 


A whole hour was spent in guesses. In the 
meantime the child seemed very well content ; 
but the girls grew uneasy. Bianca began to cry. 

“ Oh, dear ! ” she said ; ‘‘ in Italy I would know 
what to do ! Alida I Alida ! ” 

No answer came. 

“In Italy,” cried Bianca, “I would take the 
little child to the Madonna, at the corner of the 
street, and ask the sweet Lady to remember how 
the Infant Jesus was lost. But here there are no 
Madonnas in the street.” 

Grace thought a minute. Above them they 
could see a cross gleaming through the trees. 

“ There is a church,” she said. 

The children, leaving the baby’s carriage as it 
was, trudged towards the church. It was empty; 
an old man was waiting near a confessional. 

Bianca took the little girl and walked up to the 
altar-steps. She put the child down in front of 
the Blessed Virgin’s altar. 

“ Dear lady,” she said, “ send the little Mary 
her mother.” 

A few minutes passed. The little treasure- 
trove chuckled and cooed. A distant clock 
struck four. Bianca and Grace began to feel 


268 


ST. martin’s summer 


frightened, but they would not desert their 
charge. Bianca prayed harder as the}^ grew 
more uneasy. Suddenly the old gentleman near 
the confessional came towards them. 

“ Grandpapa ! ” cried the little girl. 

“ Good gracious ! ” he whispered ; “ Mary, how 
did you come here ? ” 

Of course Mary could not answer. She only 
gurgled, and pointed at the girls. The old gen- 
tleman knelt a moment, and then led them from 
the church. 

“ The Blessed Mother found you for the little 
Mary,” said Bianca, gravely. “We Italians 
know that she loves little children.” 

“ So do we ! ” cried Grace, indignantly. “ My 
mother will pray to her, and ask her to speak to 
the Infant Jesus for us, when I tell her how good 
she has been ! ” 

The old gentleman kissed his little grand- 
child, and thanked the children. He looked 
about anxiously. Suddenly around a corner 
came two figures : one was Alida, the other 
was a woman in a nurse’s cap. The latter 
began to cry. 

“ Oh, Mr. Borke,” she said, “ I am so sorry ! 


THE TIGER 


269 


I only stepped into a friend’s for a moment, and 
when I came out Mary had disappeared.” 

“Never mind now,” said the old gentleman; 
“ she is safe, — thanks to Our Lady and these lit- 
tle girls.” 

“ I thought she had rolled down the hill on to 
the railroad track.” 

Alida scolded the children, but the old gentle- 
man smiled, and asked them to pray for him. 
They all kissed the baby. Then the old gentle- 
man asked why they had come so far, and where 
they lived. They told him all about Corpus 
Christi. He said: “It is well to be devout to 
the Mother of God.” 

Grace’s mother cried a little when the children 
reached home. 

“ Ah ! ” she said, “ suppose you were lost, 
Grace ! I would really suffer then.” 

“ Our Lady would bring me back. Oh, let me 
love Our Lady ! ” 

“ I will ; and I will love her, too ! ” 

It was a happy Corpus Christi. And Grace 
carried the basket of roses in the proces- 
sion. 

******* 


270 


ST. MARTIJ^’S SUMMER 


“Good!” said Jeffreys, as Eose finished with 
flushed cheeks and shining eyes. “ Good ! ” 

“It’s a pretty story,” said Elise, forgetting her- 
self, “ and well told.” 

“ Uncle Will said that each of us ought to 
learn to tell a story well. ‘ To write it may be 
important,’ he told us, ‘ but to tell it carefully is 
more important. It helps to. teach you logic and 
to choose words.’ I’m glad you liked my story. 
I tried hardP 

Elise kissed her. 

******* 

The next day he took Jimmy to the part of the 
island where the raft was. He told him to bring 
his axe, well sharpened. Jeffreys carried a re- 
volver. 

“ What is that for ? ” Jimmy asked. 

Jeffreys hesitated. He seemed troubled. 
Jimmy looked at him in surprise. Then the old 
man said : ‘ 

“There is only one danger for us on this 
island. And I can’t say that it really is here, 
but I am afraid ” 

Jimmy looked up in amazement. This tough 


THE TIGER 271 

old sailor was the last man he would think of as 
being afraid of anything. 

“ I’m afraid that there’s one of them here, — in 
fact, I heard sounds the last time I was here. 
You may need your axe, so look after it.” 

“ One of what ? ” asked Jimmy. 

“ You’ll know soon enough,” answered the 
sailor, gruffly. “ I’d have settled him long ago, 
but the rheumatism was tugging at me ; and 
Barlow was a lubber, afraid of the shadow of a 
mast in the moonlight.” 

“ Him f What ‘ him ’ ? Who is ‘ him ’ ? ” de- 
manded Jimmy. “I will not go a step forward 
until I know just what you mean.” 

Jimmy stood still. 

‘‘ Come on, then,” said Jeffreys. “ I suppose I 
must tell you ; but when you hear what I have 
to say, I know you’ll turn back. There was a 
brig wrecked off this island a month ago. It 
was the Osprey^ Captain Marks, Liverpool to 
New York. It was a leaky old tub in ’64, — I 
remember Marks used to grumble about it then. 
Well, the Osprey went to pieces. Marks and the 
mates and the crew swam ashore, and were taken 
off by the City of Lisbon the next day. But 


272 ST. martin’s summer 

I am sorry to say one of the passengers Avas 
saved.” 

Jimmy looked at Jeffreys in horror. 

“ Why, what do you mean ? ” he asked, after a 
pause. “ You talk as if you were worse thau a 
cannibal.” 

“ He's worse than a cannibal. The other three 
— shipped from the Zoological Garden at London 
for the Central Park menagerie, and valued 
at ten thousand dollars, — were drowned. This 
beast ” 

“ This what ? ” asked Jimmy, with anxiety. 

“Well, if you must know it. He’s a Bengal 
tiger, and he lives in a jungle on the east side of 
the island. We must pass it to get to the raft, 
— there ! I knew you’d back out ! ” 

Jimmy had stepped back. But he swung his 
axe in his hand, after a moment’s thought, and 
stepped forward in advance of Jeffreys. 

“That’s right!” chuckled the sailor. “A 
rheumatic old man with a revolver and a boy 
with an axe ! He’ll find me the toughest.” 

Jimmy made no answer. His heart beat rap- 
idly. He walked on beside Jeffreys, looking 


THE TIGER 


273 


anxiously from side to side, expecting to catch 
sight of the stripes of the deadly beast. 

“ And that is not all,” continued Jeffreys, 
after a pause ; “ there’s a leopard on the island. 
I’ve seen its track very lately. It was on board 
the Osprey, too, and we thought it was drowned, 
too ; but it’s here. It keeps away, though. I 
used to hear it crashing through the woods, and 
I saw it once, — a magnificent beast, looking like 
a king, — capable of crushing us at a bound. I 
saw it spring in the air at a partridge that was 
just rising out of the bush. It was terrible, — but 
the leopard is shy. I don’t think it will attack 
us, — unless it is really hungry. Game has been 
scarce of late.” 

“Well,” answered Jimmy, “if he does, we 
must take our medicine. We’ll have to die some 
time, — but I’m going to put that time off as long 
as I can.” 

“ Eight you are ! ” said Jeffreys. 

They plodded on. The untrodden forest is by 
no means a pleasant place; there are bits of 
marsh into which you stumble, knee-deep, places 
so covered with decaying trunks and heaps of 


274 


ST. martin’s summer 


dead leaves, tangled in creepers, that you are 
kept back as if by a dozen wire fences. Jeffreys 
and Jimmy had to make a long detour. 

“I want to get my tin can of kerosene. I 
have hidden it in the fork of a big plane tree not 
far from here.” 

‘‘ Why ? ” asked Jimmy, surprised. “ A tree is 
a queer place to hide a can of kerosene in.” 

‘‘ Not at all. It is the safest place. And this 
is my reserve stock. I might bury it, of course ; 
but these beasts of the woods are always digging, 
and I might some day find my can, with the top 
off, empty, just when I needed it. I’m going to 
look at my supply of torches which are tied up, 
to dry, high in the same tree. They’re made of 
dried grasses well saturated with balsam, oil and 
tar. I’m going to patent the process, some day.” 

One has to learn how to do things in the 
woods,” said Jimmy. 

“ Or die,” answered Jeffreys, grimly. 

“When one is working out problems such as 
yours, one thinks of the ease of city life with 
wonder.” 

“The ease of city life!” exclaimed Jeffreys. 
“ Ease ! Why, I’d rather be waiting for the 


THE TIGER 


275 


tiger or the leopard, as we are now, or for the 
tiger and the leopard than live in a place where 
you eat chalk in your flour, acid in your vinegar 
and saleratus in your milk.” 

“ It’s not so bad as that.” 

“ Oh, yes, it is ! You’re poisoned slowly every 
day ! ” 

“ But I never heard of saleratus in milk,” said 
Jimmy. 

“/have, — or maybe it was arsenic,” answered 
Jeffreys. “It was something very bad. And 
I’m told that in Broadway, New York, or in 
Market Street, Philadelphia, devil machines and 
tram-cars rush over everybody that crosses their 
path. It’s horrible ! ” 

“ I think I could stand even the automobiles 
now,” said Jimmy, thinking of the leopard and 
the tiger. 

“Here’s my plane tree,” said Jeffreys. 

It was a magnificent tree, whose foliage was 
beginning to show signs that the splendor of the 
summer was past. 

“ Climb.” 

Jimmy put his axe beside Jeffreys’ pistol, and 
ascended the tree, with the agility of a monkey. 


2^6 


ST. MAETIN^S SUMMER 


“ Do you see the can ? ” 

“Yes, — here it is!” Jimmy, safe on a thick 
limb, touched the dark-green tin can with his 
left hand. 

“You’ll find a straw rope,” said Jeffreys, look- 
ing up, “ twisted around the branch above you. 
Swing that over a lower branch and let the can 
down to the ground ; — I’m coming after it again 
this evening, — and I can’t climb at my age. Do 
you see the torches ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” Jimmy called. 

Tied lightly to the smaller boughs were neatly 
made torches of grass, with their ends covered 
with tar ; they had been dipped in wax. 

“ Light one,” commanded Jeffreys, from below. 
“ Before you throw the torches down, I want to 
see whether I’ve dried them enough. But keep 
the flame away from the kerosene.” 

“ Done I ” said Jimmy, cheerily. 

He chose one of the fattest of the torches, and 
he was about to strike one of the precious 
matches, when a heavy sound below him, fol- 
lowed by a moan, made him pause. He looked 
down. 

A huge, yellow and brown striped beast was 


THE TIGER 


277 


on the ground, with its head down,— apparently 
on Jeifreys’ breast. With a blow of its terrible 
paw, the leopard had thrown the old sailor to the 
earth. He did not move ; but Jimmy could see 
his face. The color had not left it, but the eyes 
were closed. The leopard had no doubt been 
watching them, and had come upon Jeffreys, — 
with devilish cunning, — just as he was utterly 
defenseless. 

“ Lie still,’’ Jimmy said, “ if you’re alive, lie 
still ! When I get his attention, slide off to the 
thicket to the right. It’ll give you time.” 

Jimmy uttered a howl, and threw the blazing 
torch as near the leopard as he could. The beast 
drew his paw from Jeffreys’ shoulder, looked up, 
and then approached the fiery object, with his 
back to the sailor, who rolled over three or four 
times. Jimmy knew by this that he had not 
fainted. The leopard seemed transfixed to the 
ground by the sudden appearance from above of 
the ball of fire. 

Jimmy saw that Jeffreys had half raised him- 
self ; — the boy guessed that the old sailor was 
guessing at the distance between him and the 
pistol, which lay near the trunk of the plane tree. 


278 


ST. martin’s summer 


“You can’t do it!” Jimmy shouted. “Get 
into the thicket ! ” 

Jeffreys rose, and ran to the thicket as fast as 
his legs could carry him. Another torch was 
thrown from the boy’s hand in front of the leop- 
ard. There was no wind, and Jimmy could 
easily calculate how the torch would fall. 

The leopard had been amazed. I7ow he was 
enraged ; he caught sight of the boy in the tree, 
and showed his teeth viciously. He left the 
torches, and planting his enormous forefeet 
against the trunk of the tree, began to tear off 
the bark. It occurred to him then that he might 
reach his prey hj climbing, and he made a jump, 
and fastened his claws into the wood of the tree, 
hanging, for an instant, with his full weight on 
his fore paws. Jimmy, with a quick wrench, 
had pulled the stopper from the kerosene can. 
He tilted it carefully. The liquid streamed out, 
ran down the trunk, and saturated the front 
paws, head and chest of the great beast, who, 
disengaging his claws, with a low growl, sprang 
to the ground. Jimmy tilted the can, so that 
most of the kerosene fell fair on the leopard’s 
back. 


THE TIGER 


279 


The animal was evidently enraged. His tail 
was struck violently from side to side. He 
glided in half circles below the tree so swiftly 
that the yellow and brown and black of his coat 
seemed to flash and almost to glitter. Jimmy lit 
another torch at both ends. Down it went, 
flaming through the air. The leopard snarled. 
It struck him on the back, and in a moment he 
had burst into flame. He tried to tear at his 
head, with his paws, but they caught the flame. 
He whirled, he sprang into the air, he rolled over 
and over. Then he stood still for a moment 
until the Are touched his head. A hundred flam- 
ing circles seemed to meet one another on the 
ground, so swift became the despairing move- 
ments of the beast. Jimmy, the author of this 
destruction, stood aghast at the horror and 
beauty of the sight. At last it was over ; the 
leopard, who had been trying to dash towards 
the swamps, had only moved in small circles, and 
he fell, with one long, trembling groan at the 
foot of the tree. 

Jeffreys came out of the thicket. He was as 
pale as a reddened sailor could be. He could 
scarcely walk. 


280 


ST. martin’s summer 


“ Jimmy,” he called, ‘‘ come down. I’m all 
right. My shoulder may be bruised, — but I’m 
not hurt. Come down ! ” 

Jimmy, very much shaken, — somewhat scared, 
somewhat triumphant, dropped to the ground. 
There were tears in Jeffreys’ eyes as he shook 
the boy’s hand. 

God bless you ! ” he said. “You’ve a good 
head I ” 

The two did not even look at the charred re- 
mains of the leopard. The spectacle was at 
that moment too horrible for them. 


DANGER AGAIN 


281 


XXVII 

DANGER AGAIN 

Jeffreys stumbled along, grumbling at the 
stupidity of his old friend Marks, who had been 
so foolish as to venture to set sail in his brig with 
wild beasts aboard. Jimmy marched boldly 
ahead, looking carefully to right and left. Once 
they stopped short Was that a growl? They 
listened. It was only the wind rushing through 
a clump of dried bushes. 

“ I’ll have to rest.” Jimmy sat down in a clump 
of white flowers, somewhat similar to the wild 
white asters we know. “ I can’t go on just now. - 
Mr. Jeffreys, I’m sure I should not make a good 
soldier.” 

“ Oh, you’ll be all right, if you are not afraid 
until after the battle — the bravest men I’ve ever 
known did not see the real danger until it was 
over.” 

“I saw it!” said Jimmy. “When the beast 
dug his claws into the bark, I thought I was gone, 
too.” 


282 


ST. martin’s summer 


“ You behaved well.” 

Jimmy’s cheeks reddened. He liked to hear 
Jeffreys say this. He knew that the old man 
meant it. 

^^Ihad to think quickly,” Jimmy said, “but 
I’m not certain I could do it again, if the tiger 
should appear. I’ve tasted danger, and I don’t 
like it. I wish we were well out of this ! ” 

“ Your nerve is broken a little,” said Jeffreys. 
“ I’ve something here that will restore you. We 
are on my regular route, you know, — and I’ve 
things hidden all along the line.” 

Jeffreys went to a big clump of the white 
flowers, which proved to be a variety of aster, 
and brushing the bushes aside, pulled from a hol- 
low in a beech trunk a large bottle and a tin box. 
The bottle contained cold coffee and the box hard 
biscuits toasted. 

“I generally stop here,” said Jeffreys, “and 
these refreshments were left here two days ago.” 

Jimmy felt like saying, — “What a queer old 
man I ” He drank some of the coffee, and kept 
still, and this was much more to his advantage. 

“ The biscuit is hard, but good. I needed 
something like this.” 


DANGER AGAIN 


283 


‘‘A boy generally needs something to eat. 
Take it slowly. If we meet the tiger, you’ll need 
all your wits.” 

“ I hope I shall not need them, Mr. Jeffreys.” 

“ I hope so, too. I suppose you’ve been saying 
your prayers to yourself.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ Why not f ” repeated Jeffreys. 

Jimmy crunched at the last biscuit. 

“Well,” said Jeffreys, “I never thought I’d 
owe my life to a Eomanist ! ” 

Jimmy laughed, — and then he thought of the 
tiger. It was not pleasant. They took up the 
road again. 

Great thickets of golden rod and purple daisy- 
like flowers bloomed about them. In this 
clearing, — made, as Jeffreys said, — by the high 
winds of winter, — they were surrounded by 
purple and gold. 

“ Sugar in the rye ! ” said Jeffreys, as they 
went on, “ but you were quick ! I think you de- 
serve an education ! ” 

“ I thought you didn’t care for an education ? ” 

“I tell said Jeffreys, “ if you haven’t an 

education, you can’t tell a good story, or sing a 


284 ST. martin’s SUMMER 

good song. Now you can’t tell a story like them 
educated Watson people. Or even like that 
stuck-up Thorndyke girl.” 

Jimmy reddened. 

“ I can sing.” 

“I’ve never heard you,” said Jeffreys, taking 
out his pipe. “ Suppose you sing now ! ” He 
threw himself into a big bunch of golden- 
rod, with his back against a big oak. “ Maybe 
it will scare the tiger off, — if it’s about 
here.” 

“ Where ? ” asked Jimmy, shuddering. 

“Nowhere,” said Jeffreys, laughing, though 
not quite at his ease. 

Jimmy looked much relieved. 

“Well,” he said, in order to show that he had 
not lost his “ nerve,” “ I’ll sing. What ? ” 

“ Anything.” 

Jimmy crept into the goldenrod, carefully keep- 
ing his face to the thick woods. He did not feel 
like singing, but he began whistling the prelude 
to “ The Baseball Thumb.” 

“ I tell you that it hurts, 

But you don’t mind that; 

I tell you that it hurts, 


DANGER AGAIN 


286 


For the fellow at the bat 
Has sent it swift and plumb, 

It’s a baseball thumb.” 

“I don’t like that,” said Jeffreys; “that’s a 
landlubber’s song. That’s no song for educated 
people. It’s not a genteel song.” 

“ I thought you’d like it. Some boys are aw- 
fully proud of a thumb bunged up at base- 
ball.” 

“ It’s bar-bar-i-ous,” said Jeffreys. 

“ After all, it’s not likely we’d meet two beasts 
on one day. I don’t think there’s any fear, do 
you ? ” 

“ Of course not, — sing something genteel ! ” 

“ ‘ The Little Girl in Blue ’ ? ” 

“ All right ! ” 

Jimmy drew in a long breath, and wailed pa- 
thetically : — 

“ * O little girl in blue, 

How I loved you.' 

“ That’s the chorus,” he said. 

“ ‘ Your eyes were brown as squirrel fur, 

Your hair was black as night, 

The people called you Jennifer, 

Your smile was like the light ; 


286 


ST. martin’s summer 


You passed away in summer time, 

The peach was on the tree, — 

Your voice is like a sweet bell’s chime, 
As it comes back to me 
O little girl in blue, 

How I loved you, 

As sweet as morning dew, 

How I loved you.’ ” 


Jeffreys shook his head. 

“ It’s not an educated song. ‘ Jennifer,’ — that 
ain’t a name for a lady. It’s an outlandish name,” 
he added, severely. 

“I didn’t make it,” answered Jimmy, resent- 
fully. ‘‘ I don’t see what you are kicking about.” 

‘‘ ‘ Kicking ! ’ ” repeated Jeffreys, sadly. ‘‘ I 
don’t call that educated language. That’s low, 
landlubberish language. You haven’t a bad 
voice, Jimmy, but you need education. And you 
deserve it, — I’ll say that ! ” 

Jeffreys rose, and Jimmy followed him, dis- 
gusted. His indignation at Jeffreys’ lack of taste 
had sent all thought of the tiger from his mind. 
Perhaps that was what Jeffreys intended. 

They reached the east side of the island with- 
out any accident. Between the outer wall of 
rock, in the quiet sea behind this natural break- 


DANGER AGAIN 287 

water, lay the raft. It was the biggest raft Jimmy 
had ever seen. 

“ If Mr. Drew were only here how happy he 
would be ! ” 

“He may be happy yet,” chuckled Jeffreys. 
“ But now how are you going to get that raft out 
into the ocean ? If a great storm should rise, the 
chances are that the raft would be dashed to 
pieces. And ” 

Jimmy interrupted him. “ I see just what can 
be done,” he said ; “ for many a time I have 
watched the men blasting rocks near our house. 
If you will lend me your boat — or perhaps I can 
use the yawl, — I’ll take the gunpowder over there 
to-morrow, and I think I can make a fuse and 
blow up the thin line of rock just opposite to us.” 

Jeffreys laughed. “ You have plenty of pluck, 
my boy. But you’ll need more than pluck for a 
work like that. It took that great engineer. 
General Hewton, a long time to blow up Hell 
Gate. You’ve heard of that?” 

“ Oh, but this is different ! If we could get 
rid of that big rock in the centre of the line, the 
sea would pour over ” 

“ And spoil my quiet island.” 


288 


ST. maktin’s summer 


“ That is true,” answered Jimmy, after a little 
thought. “ It is better that the raft should go to 
pieces than that your home should be destroyed. 
To blast the rock would be the only way of get- 
ting the raft into the sea.” 

“ You can do as you please,” said Jeffreys. 
“ Take the raft, claim the reward, and go away, 
leaving my little island at the mercy of the sea.” 

“What do you take me for?” asked Jimmy. 
“I am surprised, Mr. Jeffreys, that you should 
think that I would do such a thing, even to gain 
Mr. Drew’s reward.” 

“ You wouldn’t?” 

“No, I wouldn’t. Do you think I could, after 
all your kindness to me ? ” 

Jeffreys looked at him closely. “ I believe you, 
boy, — yes, I believe you. The truth is, I have 
grown suspicious in my old age, and I just wanted 
to try you ; and you’ve proved yourself to be hon- 
est and true. That line of rock is deceiving. 
There is really an outlet there large enough to 
admit the steamer, and even large enough to let 
the raft pass out — if it were managed with skill, 
and by somebody, like me, who knows the sound- 
ings. I see by your face that you think I have 


DANGER AGAIN 


289 


played a mean trick in trying you this way ; but 
I’ll make up for it. As soon as the steamer 
comes, I’ll show you how it can be towed out, 
and I’ll give it to you. You can claim the re- 
ward with a clear conscience. I’ve no use for 
money ; I have as much as I want. But — look ! 
There’s that other beast ! Look at him ! ” 

Jimmy turned in the direction pointed to by 
the old sailor. About a hundred yards from 
them, in a circle of bushes, the head of the tiger 
was visible. Jimmy watched it as if fascinated. 
It was a magnificent head, velvety and beauti- 
fully striped, but cruel and vicious-looking. The 
wind had begun to blow inward from the sea, 
and the tiger had not yet discovered them. 

“ He must be pretty hungry by this time,” 
whispered Jeffreys. 

Jimmy noticed for the first time that on the 
beach at their feet lay several large fish, very 
much mangled. The tiger had evidently been on 
the watch for such fish as inadvertently came 
within his clutches ; he had mangled them, but 
refused to eat them. 

Jeffreys turned a brickdust color. “ Let us go,” 
he said ; “ the sight of the fish torn up in that 


290 


ST. martin’s summer 


way makes me sick. How he’d tear us limb from 
limb if he could 1 I’d face the sea-serpent or any 
thing in salt-water, but I am afraid of these hor- 
rible land beasts. Come, let us go.” 

Jimmy’s impulse was to run ; but he knew that 
Jeffreys could not keep up with him. 

He caught the old sailor’s hand. 

‘•'Come ! Quick, Jeffreys ! I’ve no nerve left ! 
I can’t face this other beast ! ” he whispered. 
“ I can’t ! ” 

“Kun!” said Jeffreys. “Save yourself! I 
should never have brought you here ! ” 

“ Come ! With me ! At once ! ” 

“ Quickly ! Quickly,” whispered Jeffreys. 

Jimmy tried to tread on air. 

Jeffreys turned suddenly ; but his rheumatism 
had made him stiff, and he stumbled before 
Jimmy could prevent it. In so doing he dis^ 
placed a small piece of rock, which fell with a 
slight noise. The tiger started up from the 
bushes. He saw his prey in an instant. In 
about the same space of time the animal, with 
blazing eyes, had crossed half the distance be- 
tween the bushes and our friends. Jimmy 
wanted to run away ; but, murmuring a prayer, 


DANGER AGAIN 


291 


he raised his axe and stepped before Jeffreys, 
who was trying to get up. 

“ The revolver ! ’’ the old sailor whispered, his 
hands trembling. 

Jeffreys had faced many dangers by sea and 
land, but now ill health and the awful sudden- 
ness of the tiger’s appearance unnerved him. 
Jimmy, seeing that the defense depended en- 
tirely on himself, forgot his fear. He took the 
revolver in his right hand and grasped the axe 
with his left. The tiger crouched, switching his 
tail to and fro. Jimmy saw only the yellow 
eyes of the tiger, — everything else seemed blank 
to him. The animal made a tremendous bound ; 
just at that moment the boy, aiming for one of 
its eyes, fired. 

The tiger’s bound carried him too far. He 
passed over the head of Jimmy and Jeffreys, 
and came to the ground about five feet behind 
them. The shot had failed to tell, but the flash 
seemed to daze the tiger. Dropping the revol- 
ver, although it was still loaded, Jimmy seized 
the axe in his right hand. This was a weapon he 
understood better than the revolver. He faced 
the tiger, and, before the angry beast could re- 


292 


ST. martin’s summer 


cover from the effect of the explosion, he raised 
the axe in both his hands and brought it down 
with all his force on the animal’s skull. It 
swerved aside. Jimmy made blow follow blow. 
The tiger, with horrible roars and struggles, 
rolled over. Jeffreys arose, still trembling, he 
picked up the revolver, and, as the animal got 
upon its feet, sent a shot straight to its heart. 
The tiger shivered, and then, with a convulsive 
movement that seemed to mix all the beautiful 
yellow of his coat with its soft black stripes 
died. 

Jeffreys touched the magnificent animal with 
his stick. He picked up his pistol and glanced 
at Jimmy, who stood, pale and panting, beside 
him. 

“Well,” said Jeffreys at last, “a sea-captain 
that makes a menagerie of his ship ought to go 
around to take care of the animals when they 
break loose. It is a fine skin. I’ll cut it off and 
make yon a present of it, — though I must say 
that I hope you will not drop your pistol next 
time.” 

“ I hope there may not be a tiger to meet 
‘ next time,’ ” said Jimmy. He trembled, he had 


DANGER AGAIN 


293 


to lean against a tree. He felt like a coward, 
and yet he knelt down on the sand and said a 
little prayer of thanksgiving that he had not 
been a coward. Jeffreys took off his hat. 

Together they dragged the tiger farther from 
the sea, for the tide was coming in. Jeffreys 
took out two clasp-knives which he always 
carried, and began to skin the tiger with great 
skill. He told Jimmy that he had learned the 
taxidermist trade in Japan when on a long cruise. 

“The skin will make a nice rug for you by 
and by,” Jeffreys said. 

Jimmy remembered Mrs. Esmond’s kindness. 
He said to himself that the skin would make 
a nice rug for her. It would be, perhaps, an 
acceptable substitute for the lost steamer- 
chair. 

You can imagine the amazement with which 
everybody in camp heard the story of the tiger. 
Jeffreys had great difficulty in making Kose and 
Bernard believe that there were no other tigers 
on the island. 

The young people were too busy with the story 
of the tiger all the next day to think even of the 
steamer. Towards sunset Mr. Eichards discov- 


294 


ST. martin’s summer 


ered a dot on the horizon, and later it became 
a light. By nine o’clock the brig ^Yood{peckeT^ 
piloted by Jeffreys, who went out to meet her, 
entered the quiet belt of water on the east side 
of the island. The captain, mate, and crew came 
ashore, and Jeffreys made a good bargain with 
the captain about the raft, according to which 
Jimmy was to pay one-tenth of his reward from 
Mr. Drew for the trouble of towing it to Liver- 
pool. The Woodpecker was supplied with coal, 
water, and some vegetables, and went on her 
Avay, with the raft in tow. 

Three days after her departure, the steamer 
City of Brooklyn glided majestically towards the 
island. 

“ And now for home ! ” was the cry. 


all’s well 


295 


XXYIII 
all’s well 

In the meantime there was an anxious group 
on the deck of the City of Brooklyn. The steamer 
was bound from Liverpool to New York, and on 
board of it were Mrs. Esmond, Mr. Thorndyke, 
and Mr. and Mrs. Drew. They came to be there 
in this way. Aunt Susan, as soon as the news 
of the loss of the Oceanio had been cabled, went 
to New York and took passage for Liverpool. 
There she met Mr. Thorndyke, who had re- 
solved to go to New York in the hope that some- 
thing might be heard of his children. 

Mr. and Mrs. Drew and the rest of the passen- 
gers of the ill-fated Oceanic arrived about this 
time. You can imagine the grief of Mr. Thorn- 
dyke and Aunt Susan when they found that the 
young people were not with them. Mr. Drew 
afterwards said that Aunt Susan’s face was the 
most heartrending spectacle he had ever seen. 
Aunt Susan telegraphed to Dublin, and there 


was more sorrow. 


296 


ST. maktin’s summer 


Mr. Drew could make no arrangements for ob- 
taining the right kind of cruisers. He was sure 
that the leak in the Oceanic had been caused by 
one of the logs of his rafts. This made him very 
melancholy. He often said to Mrs. Drew that he 
felt that the escape of the rafts was a punish- 
ment for his constant devotion to the acquire- 
ment of riches. 

“You had better devote yourself to St. An- 
tony, then,” remarked Mrs. Drew, half laugh- 
ingly, remembering Jimmy Brogan’s words. 

“I would,” answered Mr. Drew, “if Jimmy 
were alive. I never saw such an innocent and 
kindly face as that boy had. And to think that 
he should be brought to his death through those 
wretched rafts ! I’d give half my fortune if they 
were only safely anchored in port.” 

Shortly after this conversation Mr. Drew wan- 
dered aimlessly through the streets, lost in 
thought. His wife, with a sigh, watched him go 
out. She shook her head sadly. She feared that 
he might lose his reason from brooding over the 
possible injury his rafts might have done to 
vessels on the sea. 

“ I wish he were religious I ” she said to herself. 


all’s well 


297 


“ If he only had the faith of that boy, it would 
save him.” 

Mr. Drew went his way, sad and depressed. 
He became aware that there was music some- 
where near him, and he stopped at the end of a 
side street. The music came from a little brown- 
coated church a short distance up the street. 
Mr. Drew did not know it then, but the music he 
heard was the “ Tantum ErgoP He paused, but 
he had no intention of entering. He had never 
been in a Catholic church in his life, and he had 
a prejudice against going in. He was about to 
pass on when he caught sight of a statue in a 
little niche over the door of the church. It was 
a statue of a monk with an upturned face, and 
underneath were carved the words, “St. An- 
tony.” Mr. Drew went closer to the church and 
examined the statue. So this was Jimmy Bro- 
gan’s St. Antony, who had so much influence 
with his Lord that people in distress asked him to 
help them ! Mr. Drew wished that he could find 
out something more about this St. Antony. He 
stepped into the church. It was crowded ; every 
head was bowed in prayer, and Mr. Drew 
thought that he had never seen such evidence of 


298 


ST. maetin’s summer 


devotion before. The aroma of incense, the low 
organ tones, the devotional light, — he forgot 
even these in the piety of the people. 

He entered a pew and buried his face in his 
hands. When he arose the church was empty. 
A priest who had been kneeling at the foot of 
the altar came towards him, and Mr. Drew said : 

“I wish, sir, you would tell me something 
about this St. Antony of yours.” 

The priest concealed his surprise at the child- 
like question of the old gentleman, and asked him 
to come into his house. Then and there Mr. 
Drew received his first lesson in the doctrines of 
that faith which was to be such a deep source of 
consolation to him. He and his wife made, a 
month later, their First Communion. So Jimmy’s 
simple faith and sincere words had borne good 
fruit. 

****** 
Jeffreys and Mr. Eichards, Jimmy and Dick, 
rowed out to the steamer. Mr. Drew met them. 
He could not utter a word when he saw the boys. 
He wrung their hands and cried like a child. 
Then, after Dick had told him that the others 
were safe and well, he went down to ask his 


all’s well 


299 


wife to prepare 'Aunt Susan for her great 

joy- 

It was a happy party that entered' Jeffreys’ 
domain about an hour later. Jeffreys had deco- 
rated his little hut with a clump of late lilies and 
red poppies. Bernard and Kose kissed Aunt 
Susan until she begged them not to kill her. 
They were all very happy. 

‘‘And we must not forget St. Antony,” Mr. 
Drew said. “ I am sure he has found us 
all.” 

This reminded Jimmy of the raft. His news 
pleased Mr. Drew very much. 

“My dear boy,” he said to Jimmy, “you shall 
have the reward, and I would cheerfully give 
you more for what you have done for me. I can 
never repay you.” 

Jimmy blushed at these kind words. 

“ And so, mademoiselle,” Mr. Drew said, 
laughing, “are you still so aristocratic as you 
were ? Have you learned anything by ad- 
versity ? ” 

It was Elise’s turn to blush. 

“I have learned, Mr. Drew,” she said, “that 
goodness and kindness are better than anything 


300 ST. martin’s summer 

else, and that I have been a very heartless and 
foolish girl.” 

“ In fact,” quoted Mr. Drew, “ that 

“ ‘ ’Tis only noble to be good, 

That hearts are more than coronets, 

And simple faith than Norman blood — * 

I mean ‘ Thorndyke blood.’ ” 

Elise smiled. 

“ And what have you learned ? ” he asked of 
Dick. 

“ That every boy ought to use his eyes and 
hands, and that the worst thing in life is to find 
oneself useless when one ought to be of use.” 

“Well said!” answered Mr. Drew. “And 
you, Alice?” 

Alice hesitated. “ I cannot tell what I have 
learned,” she said ; “ but I know I have un- 
learned a great deal of nonsense. I shall never 
read a trashy novel again. The truth is, I think 
I’ve learned not to trust myself.” 

“ And you, Bernard ? ” 

“ To work hard,” Bernard said, promptly. 
Everybody laughed. 

“ And you, Alfred ? ” asked Aunt Susan, with 
a gentle smile. 


all’s well 


301 


‘‘ To be honest and sincere, and not to pretend 
anything.” 

“The best lesson of all!” said Mr. Drew. 
“ And Eose ? ” 

“ I have learned to cook,” replied Eose, seri- 
ously and proudly, holding up her hands with 
several burns on them. “ O Aunt Susan, I' can 
make coffee ! ” 

“And I,” put in Jeffreys, “have learned to 
love the faith that could make these young 
people grow better every day. If there is a 
priest on the City of Brooklyn, I’d like to see 
him.” 

“There is,” answered Aunt Susan. “I will 
ask him to see you this evening.” 

Mr. Eichards smiled on them all. In a few 
days he would be home ; he was very happy, too. 

The City of Brooklyn waited until some slight 
repairs were finished. Tom Jeffreys was very 
alert, and he surprised everybody by his cheer- 
fulness. He had begun to believe in humanity 
again. And, sorry as he was to let these young 
folk leave the island, he had within him a certain 
feeling of happiness. He tied up bags of his 
precious flower seeds and wrapped up roots and 


302 


ST. martin’s summer 


strange shells. He presented Alice with a large 
pearl and Rose with a bit of amethyst he had 
found; To Elise he gave an orchid which, he as- 
sured her, was very rare. As the last day passed, 
he stayed with the young people, and made Rose 
tell her little story over three times. 

“ I never was much of a reader,” he said, “ but 
I love good stories. Your IJncle Will was wise 
to teach you to tell them well. Why, they sound 
just as well as if they were in a book.” 

Rose was much pleased. She determined to 
add story-telling to her accomplishments. 

“ I shall never recite like you, Elise,” she said, 
“ and I am not very musical, but I can learn to 
tell a story well, — I hope that you’ll criticise me 
whenever I make a mistake or pronounce a word 
badly.” 

Elise was much flattered. “ I’m so glad that 
you care for my opinion ! ” she said. ‘‘ I’ve dis- 
covered that my opinion is not worth so much 
as I thought it was.” 

“ There is nothing that makes happiness in this 
world, except being with those we love,” said 
Alice, thoughtfully. ‘‘ When I was at home with 
Clara and Bob and Belinda it didn’t seem to be 


all’s well 


303 


such a great thing. ‘ And, then, at Eosebrier I 
did not realize how much my aunt and uncles 
were to me ; — but now Vmjust wild to see them 
again ! ” She paused. ‘‘ And, oh ! if I could only 
see mother and father again. You, Eose, have 
yours ! ” 

“ If I ever get my arms around mothers neck. 
I’ll never take them away again ! ” Eose 
announced, emphatically. 

Elise smiled. 

“ I did not know that I was so fond of Alf 
urttil I thought that he was in danger.” 

“ Home ! ” said Eose. “ Home ! I’ll count 
every minute till I get back to Thornydale.” 

Aunt Susan admired the tiger skin. Jimmy 
offered to lend it to her in exchange for the 
steamer-chair she had lent him. She was de- 
lighted. 

It was beautiful, soft, big, silky, but she could 
not look at it without feeling how powerful and 
terrible must have been the beast that wore it. 

“ This autumn has brought joy and sorrow tons 
all,” Aunt Susan sighed. “ If I once get back to 
my boy, I shall never leave him. The worst 
thing in the world is separation.” 


304 


ST. martin’s summer 


Eose looked up. 

“You must be a mind reader, Aunt Susan,” 
she said, solemnly. “I did not think anybody 
felt that but me ! ” 

Aunt Susan smiled. 

“ That’s egotism, I’m afraid,” she said. 
“You’ll find that most of us have similar hopes 
and fears.” 

“ It’s hard to believe that.” Elise looked at 
Jeffreys, whose back was to her. “ It depends on 
one’s refinement.” 

Jeffreys turned. 

“ I heard what you said, miss. The heart is 
the heart all the world round, and we all suffer ; — 
even when we seem to be most bitter, we are 
most in need of kindness. Education doesn’t 
make the heart,” 

“ If it did,” said Aunt Susan, “ there would be 
fewer heartless persons in the world. Eiches 
sometimes harden the heart.” 

“ I wonder,” said Elise, with a touch of 
sarcasm, “ whether Mr. James Brogan, with lots 
of money in his pocket, will be as amiable as only 
Jimmy Brogan was ! ” 

“ Oh, Elise ! ” exclaimed Alice. 


all’s well 


306 


‘‘ Oh, Elise ! ” Rose’s voice was very reproach- 
ful. 

“ I wish I was sure,” said Elise. 

“ When the poor boy takes care of his mother 
and pays his way through college, he will not 
have much of Mr. Drew’s reward left.” 

“If you were rich, what would you do?” 
asked Elise of Aunt Susan. “ Now that we are 
to be civilized again, I begin to think of money.” 

“ Do not think too much of it, my dear,” said 
Aunt Susan. “ If I were rich, I should ask God’s 
help many times every day, that I might spend 
my money for His honor and glory.” 

“ Well,” said Jeffreys, “ I hope you’ll pardon 
the liberty, but I think Jimmy Brogan is the 
best of all of you young folk, except little Rose ! 

“ ‘ Q little girl in blue, 

How I love you! ’ ” 

Rose laughed. 

“ But yours is a genteel name,” he added. 
“ God bless you ! ” 

The City of BrooMyn took on board all the 
coal and vegetables she wanted ; the young 
people said a tearful good-bye to Jeffreys, who 


306 


ST. martin’s summer 


promised to come to Thornydale to hear mass 
with them. Away they sailed, not without more 
regret, as the island and its circle of foam-caps 
were lost to view. 

There is not much to be told now. Jeffreys, 
visited by every priest that passed his island, be- 
came a devout Catholic. Elise and Alfred, Dick, 
Alice, Kose, and Bernard, went across the ocean 
in a week or so after they landed in New York. 
The Thorndykes are now in London, and the 
Watsons met Uncle Will in Dublin, where their 
father and mother promised to join them on the 
first of the year. Mrs. Brogan, looking a little 
older, was almost too moved to speak when Jimmy 
appeared. Mr. and Mrs. Drew shed tears at the 
spectacle of the meeting of the mother and son. 

Mr. Drew gave Jimmy nearly ten thousand 
dollars. Mrs. Brogan paid off all her husband’s 
debts and built a nice house. Jimmy was sent 
to college, where he is now, working as hard as 
he worked on Jeffreys’ island. Mr. Drew and 
Jimmy have masses said for the repose of the 
souls of the four dead sailors on the anniversary 
of their death. 

At Christmas, over a year after their ad- 


all’s well 


307 


venture had taken place, there was a reunion of 
the Watson’s at Thorny dale. “ Arden’s Kosary ” 
was performed with much success, and, after that, 
each of the group, — Ferd Esmond was there to 
listen — told some anecdote of the eventful “ St. 
Martin’s Summer.” 

And Uncle Will, after his masterpiece had 
been played, declared that he would some day 
make a play about the good St. Martin, who al- 
ways had summer in his heart. 

“Promise me,” he said, “that whenever our 
Indian summer comes, you’ll think of St. 
Martin, whose summer this season is, because it 
comes, — just as your escapes came, — when every- 
body says that winter and rough weather will 
destroy all the brightness of life. It means hope, 
always hope. The summer may seem gone, — 
but it will shine again, if you keep the joy of 
the saints with you ! ” 


THE END 






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